


One Fell Swoop

by CptEmie



Series: Curiouser and Curiouser: The Displaced Saviors of Thedas [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Angst and Feels, As canon as I can make it, Break Up, Consequences, Darcy swears a lot, Depression, Down the rabbit hole, Epic Friendship, Explicit Language, F/M, First Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Heartbreak, How do I not already have a spoilers tag on this?, I'm no good at writing kisses, Implied Sexual Content, It's getting a little sexy in here, Love Triangles, Mages (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars, Magic, OC Human Inquisitor, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Reconciliation, Self-Hatred, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Trespasser Spoilers, a bit fluffy, otherwise there would be so many more, so many spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 58,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out for a weekend camping trip, Darcy Wrenfield has a vivid nightmare about a dying woman and a mountainside covered in enormous spiders. When she wakes up, she is the prisoner of something called the Inquisition, and must navigate her way through the strangest dream she's ever had.</p><p>An alternate universe that runs as absolutely close to canon as I can make it, except for the romances. Minimal dialogue taken from the game.<br/>There are spoilers EVERYWHERE. It's a spoiler buffet, seriously.</p><p>**Depictions of violence aren't necessarily graphic, but they are there - so consider it a heads up!**<br/>FINISHED! It's all up :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

     Campfire smoke was snaking up into the sky in thin curls by the time Darcy finally settled into her sleeping bag. The mountain was always quiet in the middle of September – no more students milking out the ends of their summer vacations, no more amorous couples trying to convince themselves that they were outdoorsy simply because of the season. In fact, the only other person on the mountain this weekend was the Ranger: a gruff, older man named Clarence who generally left her alone. Once or twice a season she would invite him to her campsite for dinner as a courtesy and he would accept about half the time; spending their time telling her about his grandchildren and listening to her made-up stories.  
     She was a writer. A damn good one, too. But genuinely too terrified to ever send anything to a publisher. So she sat at her desk during the week and her campfire on the weekends, and wished for anywhere but here.  
     Tonight, Clarence had declined her dinner invitation on the pretense that he had paperwork to do. Apparently the last wave of college-age campers had made a wreck out of the bottom of the mountain – trash everywhere, divots from golf clubs pulling up half the ground, scorch marks from improperly set fires. Darcy could only guess how many liquor bottles were probably included in the “trash” category of his pickup. She certainly didn’t envy Clarence his job. _Maybe I should leave him something on my way out?_ Yes. That would work. She certainly had brought enough sweets with her to leave a small bundle of brownies on his desk before she left the mountain. Sweets were her weakness, but she was always happy to share.  
     If she could spend her life like this – away from her office and traffic jams and social media – she would be a much happier woman. It wasn’t that she hated her life, per say, but more like it felt like an ill-fitting, scratchy sweater that had been given to her by a grandparent for Christmas and she was being constantly watched to make sure she was wearing it. Every major choice in her life had been made as the result of some kind of coincidence or accidental circumstance. She went to the University of New Hampshire because her father had. She worked in the same office that had reticently given her an internship after she graduated. She occasionally dated the pencil pushers that worked on the same floor as her. She paid too much for an apartment that no one ever visited and her landlords never fixed anything in, and she rode the bus because she would never, never be able to afford a car.  
     But here? Out in the woods? This was the closest to comfortable she ever was.  
     Content to stare up at the stars until she fell asleep, she smothered her fire and tucked herself under the safe cover of her sleeping bag. Maybe she was foolish, but she hadn’t bothered to set up her tent this weekend. The air was mild, the bugs were well-behaved, and the sky was so bright that she hadn’t wanted to hide from it. Besides, last night’s dreams had been so pleasant, this had obviously been the correct choice. It was easy to fall asleep in the quiet stillness of the first yellowing trees.

      ** _Halls upon halls upon halls. Which way out? And what is this damned maze of a castle, anyway? It feels like I’ve been running for days, but I have no idea what I’m running from. Or where I’m running to. Out. I have to get out. Something awful will happen if I don’t get out._**  
**_What was that? Heart pounding, palms sweating, skidding around the next corner and throwing myself against the double doors in front of me. “Help me!” The voice calls. But who’s screaming? “Somebody help me!” Throwing myself against the door again, clawing at the handles and praying they will open this time._**  
**_The catch in the locks pull hard, doors spilling open and framing me like some kind of damned angel._**  
**_What’s going on here?”_**  
**_She’s suspended in mid-air, this woman. Like some morbid vision of an elderly St. Perpetua, arms flung out and robes snapping in the green glow of wind swirling around her body. Magic? Sure. Why not? I’ve dreamt stranger things._**  
**_The thing holding her aloft looks like swirling energy, the one commanding it is some grotesque combination of man, demon, and bird – dripping bloody skin and cut into knobs as though his skeleton had lost the ability to support his own flesh._**  
**_"Run while you can. Warn them!” Her voice rasps with the effort. Whatever is holding her up is hurting her – slowly killing her. Maybe not slowly. I’ve never seen anyone die before, so I wouldn’t really know._**  
**_"We have an intruder.” The skeletal bird barely looks at me, but the chill that those four words send through my spine is an impossible mix of terror and deep-seated instinct. Instinct to throw myself forward and snatch her out of the air. Instinct to drag her out the door and keep running. But terrified and rooted to the solid stone floor beneath me. Finally getting up the courage to lean forward – to coil up and become the spring I need to be – when the last three words blow me backward. “Kill her. Now!”_**  
**_Tumbling down a never ending mountainside, suffocating in black and green smoke, feet bleeding and hands bruised, every muscle aching because I will not – can not – let them rest. There’s something chasing me but I refuse to turn around. If I hesitate I’m sure it will be over. And they say that if you die in a dream, you die in real life. So I had better move fast. Panting. Stumbling. Falling over myself._**  
**_And then, there she is. A great, glowing outline of my own private St. Perpetua, reaching out to me and willing me to keep going. The staircase she is floating above is less a staircase and more of a cliff side with the impression of steps cut into it._**  
**_Spiders – the sound in back of me is unmistakably spiders. Better start climbing, Darce._**  
**_Almost there, but I can’t quite reach her hand. She’s kneeling on the edge, bent over to grab me. But even if she could get to me, she wouldn’t be able to lift me. She’s well past the age of firm upper body strength – I would only end up pulling her down over the edge.  
__And then, an explosion._**

     When her eyes split open, she was gasping for air against a cold, damp floor. She peaked around the room carefully and wondered lamely what lucid dreaming felt like – because the iron prison bars less than six feet from her on all sides could not possibly be real. But no: that migraine beginning to throb at the base of her skull was unmistakably genuine, so she reached for the pocket of her sweater where her pain killers would be. Except her hands wouldn’t move. They were locked in place. Hesitantly (very hesitantly), Darcy looked down at her hands. She was – oh, what was the phrase? Oh, right:  
     Clapped in irons.  
     Spread across her hips was a wide plank of metal – iron, like the bars in front of her – which her wrists had been securely locked into. “What the _fuck_?!” Her voice caught in her throat, but the words came out clearly enough for the man standing nearby to turn quickly around, cast a hateful glance at her, and bound out the door. Darcy flailed, pulling herself up onto her knees and trying to see if she could identify every ache in her small body. It felt like she had been running nonstop for hours only to quit altogether, leaving her muscles seized and throbbing.  
     And then her hand split open.  
     Glowing green like the mists that threatened to swallow her whole in her dream. Green like the glowing outline of her imaginary saint. Crackling, electric green that seemed to be pulling energy out of her blood with each fluctuation of its light. The scream that tore out of her was almost drowned out by the sudden slamming of a heavy wooden door nearby: a tall woman with short black hair in…full plate armour?...was striding towards her with obvious purpose. _Well, at least this is still a dream_ , Darcy thought to herself, closing her eyes and willing herself to wake up.  
     A second woman – this one had chin-length red hair and was wearing long purple robes with thickly armoured boots and greaves (alright, this was it, this was definitely still a dream) stalked quietly across the room towards them. The first woman’s footsteps continued (very much like a lion circling her prey) before she knelt down next to Darcy’s ear and hissed, “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now?” Her accent was vaguely familiar, some kind of odd combination of Italian and Portuguese that reminded her of her foster mother’s house at Christmas, but without the warmth or kindness. “The Conclave is destroyed,” she went on. “Everyone who attended is dead.” She stopped next to the second woman and sneered. “Except for you.”  
     Darcy’s eyes dropped wide and her jaw slackened. Absolutely nothing about this felt like a dream, except that she had no idea what was going on. “What do you mean everyone’s dead?” She choked out.  
     The woman darted forward, snatching the irons up that held her hands apart. “Explain _this_.” She demanded.  
     Her hand flashed and crackled, expelling another spark of green light that made Darcy’s stomach churn with effort and something like doubt. “I can’t,” she said truthfully. She couldn’t explain _any_ of this, let alone her Halloween-store-special of a hand.  
     “What do you mean you can’t?” Both women were pacing, and the menacing one with black hair was gripping the pommel of her sword. _Why did she have a sword?_  
     “I don’t know what it is or where it came from,” Darcy wasn’t entirely sure how to be clearer about it.  
     “You’re lying!” Her hands went flying from her pommel and slammed down on the iron board that was lying across Darcy’s lap.  
     The other woman snatched her up under her armpit and pulled her backward, glowering at her companion. “We need her, Cassandra.”  
     Cassandra? Well, that seemed about right. The only Cassandra that Darcy had ever known was a bully in middle school who used to beat her up whenever she caught Darcy reading.  
     Both women turned back to look down at her. “I don’t understand.” She said slowly.  
     “Do you remember what happened?” The red-haired woman had a flat, French accent. “How this began?”  
      _Best just to be honest, Darce. Who knows what the hell kind of farce this is._ _Who knows, maybe this dream might turn out to be the inspiration I needed to finally write a book worth selling._ “I remember running. _Things_ were chasing me, and then…” _And then a medieval Catholic saint saved me from getting eaten alive by giant spiders._ “And then…a woman.” Better to be vague on that point.  
     “A woman?” Yes, the accent was definitely French.  
     “She reached out to me, but then…” Darcy sighed and shook her head vaguely. It was all she could remember.  
     The Italian-Portuguese woman turned on her heel and lowered her voice, somehow thinking that the stone walls wouldn’t reverberate her voice back at Darcy in the center of the room. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.” They parted, the French woman tracking quietly out of the room into what looked like an enormous snow-bank outside. And the woman with the sword knelt at Darcy’s side, making her pull back slightly out of a deeply ingrained impulse of self-defense. The woman – Cassandra – raised her eyebrow appraisingly before reaching to unlock her prisoner’s wrists.  
     “What did happen?” Darcy asked, as the iron fell away. _If I’m going to make this into a book, best to ask my delusions all that I can before I wake up._  
     Cassandra brought her to her feet. “It will be easier to show you,” she said. There was something like regret in her voice, tinted by sadness.


	2. Getting Adjusted

     The strands of energy that linked her hand to the enormous, hulking tear in the sky exhausted her. She could feel her knees quiver and buckle and she dug her heels into the frozen ground to keep herself steady but ultimately it was too draining. The last thing she saw before her eyes shut was the worry in the eyes of the little red-haired man who had been standing beside her.  
     When she finally felt herself wake up: seconds, minutes, or maybe hours later, she kept her eyes sealed shut and laid still. It was all a dream. _The weirdest, most vivid dream you’ll ever have in your life, but just a dream. There are no glowing saints. There are no rips in the sky. Your hand is NOT cut open and pulsing. There is no such thing as magic. Dwarves have reality TV shows, not overt chest hair and crossbows. Elves are myths. The only place you’ll ever find that many people in heavy armour is a movie set or a Renaissance Faire. Get a goddamn hold of yourself, Darcy. Now open your eyes. Open your eyes and be in your sleeping bag. Open your goddamn eyes._  
     When she opened her eyes, she was definitely not in her sleeping bag.  
     A little (little relative to most other people, Darcy was probably about the same height) elf was creeping carefully up to the bed where she was lying. The woman squeaked in shock and fell to her knees when Darcy shot up in bed, just as startled as she was. The elf muttered something about “at once!” and fled from the room before Darcy could ask her anything.  
     The cabin was sparsely furnished, meant for utility rather than a living space. A bed, a desk, a small side table and a few chairs. She had been redressed, she could feel that immediately. Instead of her comfortable (but incredibly dirty, if she remembered correctly) flannel pants, t-shirt, and wool sweater; she was now tied into soft leather pants and covered in a thick cotton tunic with some kind of tight leather vest that had buckles and ties all up the sides. Whatever strapless bra they had awkwardly strapped her into was itching like hell where it clasped in the middle of her back. There was a pair of stiff-looking boots at the end of her bed and judging from how cold it was in the cabin she supposed she probably shouldn’t go rooting around outside without shoes, so she fought against the hard leather for a solid ten minutes trying to get her feet inside. Eventually, though, she succeeded, and found that the boots were only a tiny bit too long for her, but were otherwise fairly comfortable.  
     There was no fighting it, apparently. Unless she was in a coma, this was definitely not a dream. Everything was solid to the touch. The smell of wood smoke, roasting meat, and hot metal swirled through the air around her. And the latch of the weighty wooden door creaked and groaned under the pressure of Darcy pushing it open. The sun blinded her momentarily and she threw one arm up in front of her eyes, only taking it down when she heard. “Well, look at that, you’re alive,” from a foot or so away.  
     There he was, that smirking little dwarf from the valley. For reasons completely unknown, she actually smiled when she saw him. “Remember me?” He asked as she blinked several times to adjust to the light.  
     She hesitated. “Varric?” She hoped she was right.  
     “Good,” he nodded. “You didn’t end up completely brain dead. The Seeker will be pleased.” He lent her a lopsided grin. “Well, as pleased as she can be, which just means she won’t kill you.”  
     “That’s comforting,” Darcy snarked. Something about him was undeniably easy, like she could just tell him anything and he would only smile and shrug his shoulders, no matter how improbable. Best not to test that theory, she thought with a scowl.  
     If she really was somewhere else...sometime else? Was this – somehow – time travel? There was no telling how people would react if she told them that she was from another world or time. If she hadn’t seen the egg-headed elf throwing ice and thunder at fucking demons, she would have thought this was the kind of place that burned witches at the stake. But there was a word he had used: “apostate”. Was that their word for witches or wizards? _No, Darcy. This is not Hogwarts. Magic is not, repeat NOT real._  
     “Come on,” Varric waved for her to follow him. “She wanted to see you when you woke up.”  
     “I’ll bet,” Darcy nodded and fell into step behind him.  
     All around them, lining the paths and staring unabashedly, where all manner of people. _All manner of extras plucked right out of Lord of the Rings_ , she thought, suppressing a small laugh.  
     She could hear, distinctly over the tense silence: “That’s her.”   
     Another: “She closed the Breach.”  
     A third, in a cautious whisper: “The Herald of Andraste!”  
      _What the hell?_ She took a long step forward and bent her head towards Varric. “The herald of what now?”  
     “Andraste,” he looked up at her, slightly bewildered. “Andraste?” He said again when she looked just as confused as he did. “Bride of the Maker? Saviour of Thedas? Begetter of shiny golden statues as far as the eye can see?” He chuffed slightly when she just shook her head at him. “Maybe we’ll have to rethink that brain damage,” he teased. “You saved them. Closing that Breach in the sky saved everyone. They’re grateful.”  
     “But yesterday they wanted to kill me.”  
     “That was three days ago, kid.” He had kind eyes, Darcy decided. That’s why she was so comfortable with him. He looked at her like he actually gave a damn.  
     “Three?”  
     “You passed right out after the thing closed.” He patted her arm affectionately. “You did it, though. The damn thing closed. No more demons spilling out all over the place.”  
     “Varric,” she leaned down a little closer. “What the hell is going on?”  
     He looked up at her with a great, shaking laugh. “I wish I knew, kid.”  
     They came to a halt at the front door of a church (at least, she supposed it was a church. It looked like pictures of Old Catholic churches that littered England three or four hundred years ago) and Varric gave her a little nod. “Sorry, kid. I’d rather pack up for the Deep Roads than go in there.” And he walked away.  
      _Deep Roads?_ She watched him leave with something like intense anxiety. _Don’t leave_ , she begged inside her head. _You’re the only one here who seems like an actual person._  
     She shoved open the heavy door (why was everything here so heavy?) and forced herself over the threshold, where Cassandra was waiting. There was a whirl of information waiting for her, and a formal introduction to the few people that she had been vaguely aware of three days ago. The French woman, Leliana, was apparently a master spy. _Good to know_ , Darcy thought, squeezing her eyes shut nervously. The perpetually put together woman, Josephine, was polite and formal, and Cassandra introduced her as the group’s ambassador. _Yes, a politician. That explains the manners._ And the only man in the room, Cullen, was (of course) the military commander. He had facial scars and broad shoulders and wavy blonde hair that made him look like some kind of Arthurian legend. Yes, here was Sir Launcelot in living colour. He even had that deep, velvety voice that you expected from testosterone-laced knights in shining armour. Good God, he was a walking, talking cliché. And she couldn’t tear her eyes away.  
     “We have not,” Josephine the ambassador was saying, watching Darcy carefully, “been able to discern anything of your lineage. This, of course, presents a problem for the clerics who wish to know exactly who you are.”  
     Darcy swallowed hard. _This is the part where they think I’m completely mad and either lock me up or kill me._ “My name is Darcy…” she said quietly, intent on just riding the thing out. “I’m…” _Oh, how do I say this without getting my head cut off?_ “I’m not from here.”  
     “You sound like a Marcher,” Sir Launcelot tilted his head at her. “But I thought I knew most everyone in Kirkwall.”  
     “Uh…” _Shit. Shit. Shit._ “No,” she shook her head. And then, when she desperately reached for literally anything she could think of and came up empty, she just found the vaguest thing she could think of. “I’m from the coast.” _Oh God, please let wherever we are have a coast._  
     “Hmm.” Cassandra narrowed her eyes but didn’t say anything else.  
     “But your family?” Josephine had her pen poised over a ridiculous, low-tech clipboard.  
     Here, at least, she could tell the truth. “Dead.”  
     “All of them?” Cassandra spoke up.  
     “Yes.”  
     “The Blight killed half of Ferlden,” Cullen said, with what sounded like a twinge of regret.  
      _What the hell do I say to that?_ Darcy’s mind was scrambling to find believable lies and half-truths. This time, she had no idea, so she just kept quiet.  
     “At least give me a name.” Josephine entreated. “Anything to keep the clerics at bay.”  
      _Here we go._ Darcy closed her eyes and heard her heart pounding in her ears. “Ferelden,” she nodded, finally. At least that seemed to be a place name that was acceptable as an answer. “And my family name is Wrenfield.”  
     “Well, Mistress Wrenfield, welcome to the Inquisition.” Josephine nodded gratefully. “Perhaps you should rest a bit more. Or explore camp, if you wish.”  
      _Inquisition? That can’t be good. Inquisitions are historically an absolutely horrible idea. But then – of course it came out of nowhere. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition._ Desperate to not giggle at her own internal dialogue, Darcy looked around the room slowly. “Right. Uh…thank you?” She must have hesitated one moment too long, because Cullen side-stepped the table until he was next to her.  
     “I’ll give you a tour?” He offered.  
      _Oh, great. He looks like a fairy tale and now he’s ACTING like a fairy tale._ But, “Thank you,” was all she said.  
     They strolled along beaten paths, twining through cabins and larger wooden buildings, some of which turned out to be people’s quarters – one was an apothecary ( _Apothecary? Really?_ ), one was a tavern ( _Thank god, at least there’s a place to get drunk. I could seriously use about four fingers of whiskey right now._ ), and then there were large canvas tents pitched over every available bit of ground. Elves and dwarves and humans all existing together in relatively pleasant co-habitation (although it seemed like the elves mostly seemed to be servants); and men and woman in huge sets of armour pummeling each other with wooden swords under Cassandra’s watchful eagle eye.  
     “Do you have any sort of martial training?” Cullen asked when Darcy stopped to stare at the sparring.  
     “Not really,” she admitted. “I can use a knife, but that’s mostly just to skin fish or cut wood.”  
     “Yet you did remarkably well in the valley, I hear.” He was watching her watch them intently.  
     “Really?” She snapped her eyes up to him in surprise. “They said that?”  
     He nodded. “Though the Seeker admitted to being surprised that you are a mage.”  
      _Ex-fucking-cuse me?_ “I’m sorry?” She felt her eyes go wide with confusion.  
     “Solas, too, seemed surprised – not at your magic, but at your apparent lack of training.” He was turning to walk on.  
     “I…uh…” her head was spinning. Magic? What magic? Did he mean that thing that went shooting out of her hand? Because that was the green gash, not her. Or did he mean the other thing...? _Magic isn’t real, Darcy Wrenfield. Keep your shit together._  
     “You need not fear me,” his hands came to rest instinctively on the pommel of his enormous sword. _No, Darcy, do NOT think about his enormous sword._ “I have resigned my position with the Templar Order. I will not harm you.”  
     “I don’t…” She sputtered.  
     “I was at Kinloch Hold, during the Blight,” his tone was serious, but even. “I do not remember you.”  
     “No,” she exhaled the breath that she wasn’t aware she had been holding in. “You wouldn’t.” And that was the God’s honest truth.  
     “Ah,” he gave her a knowing smile. “Of course, you are an apostate. That will thrill the clerics to no end.”  
     Something inside her was screaming for her to spit out a little bit of honesty. Maybe it would make this insanity a little easier. Maybe the more honest she was, the more likely she was to find a way out of here: wherever here was. The impulse came fully out of nowhere. “That was the first time.” Her voice was much lower than she meant for it to be. It came out as a confession, not a statement of fact.  
     He started. Absolutely gob smacked. He reeled around to face her, with a hand outstretched to grasp her shoulder. “The very first?” He was gaping. “Your magic has never manifested before?”  
     “No.”  
     “Maker’s breath…” He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. “And, pardon me for asking, but I assure you it’s only to ascertain facts.” His ears were a little pink. Was he blushing? _Keep it in your pants, Darcy._ “Exactly how old are you?” He asked.  
     She shrugged. “Twenty-eight.” Why did it matter?  
     But there he was again, jaw in the dirt. “I’ve never heard of magic manifesting so late.” He bowed a little and begged her pardon. And seriously, who begs pardon? “I must discuss this with the Seeker.” And then he was dashing off to the practice grounds.  
     “So you decided to stay, huh?” A voice behind her asked.  
     “I don’t have much choice, do I?” Varric had come to find her. _Thank god. You’re the only relatively normal person in this entire place, and you’re not even a normal person._  
     “No, the Seeker tends to decide for you if you stay or go.” He nodded, and something told Darcy that the dwarf had joined the Inquisition under similar circumstances. “Was Curly giving you the grand your?”  
     “Curly?”  
     “Commander Cullen,” he clarified. “It looked like he was showing you around.”  
     “Oh. Right.” It seemed like Varric was the only one she was able to smile around in this place. “He seems nice enough, I guess.”  
     “Curly’s a good guy,” Varric motioned for her to walk with him. “A little worse for the wear, but aren’t we all?”  
     “Anybody worth talking to is usually a little fucked up,” she agreed, and that elicited a belly laugh from the dwarf.  
     “From your mouth to the Maker’s ears, kid.”  
     “Varric?” She kept pace with him and attempted to shove her hands into her pants pockets, but found she had none. She crossed her arms to compensate. “Is there a library anywhere?” _Yes, this is the way to do it. Research this insane place without having to ask too many obvious questions._ “I feel like…like I don’t have my entire memory back.” It wasn’t a lie necessarily. She couldn’t remember the entire dream, and she couldn’t figure out how she had gotten here. “I was hoping that reading might jog my memory.”  
     “Sure,” he gestured back the way they came. “There’s a bunch of history books in Ruffles’ office, and Chuckles has most of the magic stuff in his quarters.”  
     “Ruffles?” She hated being confused, but at this point it seemed like a perpetual state of being. “Chuckles?”  
     “Josephine and Solas, respectively.” He shrugged.  
     “Thanks,” she managed a small smile. “You know…” she wasn’t sure what compelled her to say it, “but you’re the nicest person here, you know that?”  
     He winked and laughed. “Sorry kid, I’m spoken for.”  
     “Oh, shut up,” she nudged him playfully – an instinct she hadn’t expect. “You’re not my type, anyway.”  
     “What, excessively handsome and manly isn’t your thing?” He tipped his head up and smirked.  
     “I’m going to go read.” She nudged him again and headed off to Josephine’s office, hoping the ambassador wouldn’t question her too much over her supposed memory loss.


	3. Something Like Comfortable

            It was becoming quickly obvious that this place – Haven – was completely real. By the calendar on her wall, she had now been here for three weeks. Days were starting to run together, and her entire body was a continuous ache. Every morning she stumbled out of bed and had breakfast with Varric by his tent in the middle of camp. It was centering, she found, to sit together over their notebooks and slowly wake up with the only other person who seemed to drink coffee. Having found out that Darcy was also a writer, Varric had happily furnished her with a blank notebook, a trim feather pen, and a bottle of ink. She had practiced in her quarters privately so that no one would see the ink she spilled everywhere while she was learning to write with a feather, but she did pretty well after a few days of practice.

            After breakfast she made her way up to the Chantry – their name for their church, according to her reading – and had her head filled with a plethora of different missions that the Inquisition was either undertaking or researching. Josephine said that the clerics had denounced their cause entirely, but the people were calling Darcy “the Herald of Andraste” and flocking to their little mountain camp by the dozens. They were treating her like a saint, and it was truly disconcerting (for that matter, the idea that a girl who grew up in an upper-middle class American suburb could be anything but ordinary was odd enough). Darcy had been folded into the war council – now composed of herself, Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen – and the others were actually listening to her opinions. _Not the best idea, considering the only things I know about military maneuvering comes from TV and the movies._ But so far she hadn’t completely mucked anything up.

            If the war council meeting didn’t last too long she would be able to grab a little lunch from the tavern, but usually Cullen dragged her away to train with the raw recruits as soon as Josephine dismissed them. Swords, she discovered, were incredibly heavy: too heavy for her to manage. So Cullen gave her a set of daggers and spent an uncomfortably large amount of time with his arms in line with hers, correcting her stance by kicking her legs apart and dwarfing her frame with his while he tried over and over to get her to concentrate. _I can’t focus with you breathing down my neck, Launcelot._ She thought, day in and day out.

            After a pathetically short dinner, she would be sent off to meditate with Solas: to learn how to control her magic. By this time she was always bled completely dry, and had to beg Solas to go slowly in his lessons. It was, even a few weeks later, completely inconceivable to her. The horrific green mist that she had dreamt about was apparently something called The Fade, which was supposedly where humans and elves went where they dreamt. It was the place that demons and spirits lived, and the place where magic came from. And every single thing about it sounded impossible until she remembered that she had a great, gaping gash in her left hand that glowed green and could sew up holes in the sky.

            “You must focus your energy,” Solas was always telling her. “Envision the magic trailing from your fingertips. Think of it as a mist.” And then he would sit back while she tried desperately for the better part of an hour to push something – anything - out of her fingertips and just ended up looking constipated.

            Tonight Darcy sat, staring at her hands angrily, just about ready to ask Solas to let her go early tonight. _I’m useless with daggers, but at least I seem to be getting that faster than whatever magic bullshit I’m supposed to be learning. At least the instructor is easier on the eyes…_ Her mind wandered to the pleased nod Cullen had given her when he sent her to dinner that night. He thought she was improving, if slowly. She was momentarily lost in the memory when she saw a single, tiny curl of smoke leak out of the space between her fingertip and her nail bed. Her eyes blew wide open when she saw it. _Oh my god, I’ve finally lost it. I really think this is possible._ She squeezed her eyes open and shut four, five, six times, but the smoke never went away. It got thicker and darker, until it looked like a spent match slithering up towards the sky.

            “Concentrate on your thoughts,” Solas whispered. He seemed wary of startling her. “Keep them close.”

            _But I was just thinking about Cullen. If the trick to magic is being horny, this is going to be a very interesting skill._ She screwed up her face and shrugged a little in resignation. _Go ahead, Darcy, let your mind wander._ His hands on hers, his breath on her neck.

            The little swell of smoke sputtered and showered the frozen ground they were sitting on with sparks – about the amount that a sparkler gave off on the Fourth of July. The burst caused Darcy to squeal and topple over, all at once startled and petrified of setting herself or Solas on fire. “What the fuck was that?” she stammered when she finally pulled herself up to sitting again.

            “That,” Solas was sitting stark still with a tiny smile stretched across his lips. “Was magic.” He reached for her hand, completely undisturbed by the fact that sparks had just come flying out of it. “What were you thinking about?” He asked.

            She fought the blush that was welling up from the bottom of her neck. “I’d rather not say.”

            “If you do not tell me, we cannot determine the root of your powers.”

            _The root? There was a root?_ “It’s…personal.”

            Solas seemed entirely amused. “Sexual arousal?” He guessed. “Yes, that would make sense. Many mages come into their powers when their bodies are nearing the age they will be able to bear or father children.” He considered her carefully. “Were you particularly aroused in the valley, the day you closed the Breach?”

            _How the hell am I supposed to remember that?_ She thought back but couldn’t find anything that stood out. “I don’t think so.”

            “Then it is only one of possibly many ways to call on your powers,” he said matter-of-factly. “We will need to find the others. But for now, I advise you to hold on to your more…pleasurable thoughts.”

            _Oh great. So I’m supposed to stay turned on the entire time I want to make those crazy little sparks? This is going to get interesting…_

            “Try again,” Solas told her. He folded his arms in his lap and turned his focus to her hands. “Try, if you could, to remember a particularly vivid encounter you may have had.”

            _You must be fucking kidding me._ She huffed out a deep breath and shook her shoulders loose. _Sparks, Darcy. You just had a tiny firework come out of your goddamn finger because Sir Launcelot put his face next to yours._ Another huff. She held up the same finger and stared at it intently, willing her brain to conjure hands, mouth, lips, tongue against skin – clothes dropping to the floor, breath in ragged pants.

            And enormous stream of smoke and sparks erupted from three fingers, shooting up into the sky almost like a lightning bolt. The sheer force and shock of it sent her toppling over while Solas sat still, looking pleased. “Good,” he said, while she was still laid out on her back across from him. “I think that will be it for tonight. No need to tire you out.”

            She made like a rocket for Varric’s tent and collapsed next to his fire. She had a shit-eating grin spread across her face. _Fireworks just exploded from my finger. Lightning just cracked through the sky from my hand. I just did fucking MAGIC._ “Varric, you are not going to fucking believe this,” she said, on the verge of actual, honest giggles.

            “I saw the lightning,” he motioned towards the clearing where she and Solas held their lessons. “Was that you?”

            “It was me!” She couldn’t help herself; she wiggled out a little happy dance. “I just made lightning. Me! Can you believe it?”

            “Nice job, Princess.” He raised his bottle to her and took a hearty swig. “Glad you’re getting the hang of it.”

            “Princess?” She took the bottle when he offered it and took a few dregs off it before handing it back.

            “Stuff like that,” he nodded while she drank. “You drink like a fish, eat like a qunari – I’ve seen you like fires with stones and chop wood for Harritt when he needs it.”

            “So…that earns me the title ‘Princess’?”

            “Yes,” he made it sound obvious.

            “Because I’m not?” Apparently she was a little slow on the up take tonight.

            “Yes,” he said again.

            She looked at him – a burly little man, no more than 4’8” if she had to guess. Big shoulders, little waist, even smaller legs. Broken nose, strawberry blonde hair, a big laughing smile. He’d been quite affectionate with her right from day one, and she had found herself actually enjoying their time together. It was inconceivable – but then, so was her entire situation. “I’m glad..." she paused, almost second guessing herself. "I'm glad we're friends, Varric.”

            “Oh, now,” he wavered her off to hide his smile. “Don’t go getting soft on me, Princess.”

            She drank from the bottle again – it was cheap, homemade whiskey that made her throat burn and reminded her of college. “Not a chance, Shorty.”


	4. Recruitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has undergone some sizable edits for detail, pacing, and better characterization as of 10 September. Thanks for reading, thanks for your kudos, and thanks for all your happy thoughts!

            “You want me to go?” Darcy was standing in the war room with the other advisors.

            “Yes,” Leliana nodded. “Getting you more experience in the field is vital, and the people are greatly encouraged to see you on your travels.”

            “Solas thinks you are ready as well,” Cullen nodded encouragingly. “We have faith in you.”

            _Good lord, why? Because after a month of training I can finally hold a dagger without getting it kicked out of my hand? Because I can reliably shoot a spark out of my hand by getting my panties in a twist?_ _I sure as hell don’t have faith in me._

            “It is a simple task, Herald. Take a few of your people with you in case you encounter any trouble on the road.” The French spymaster was trying to comfort her, but the idea of coming across any trouble at all was disturbing. Just as disturbing as the fact that everyone was now addressing her formally as the Herald of Andraste. She was now “my lady” instead of “Darcy”. People bowed or curtsied when they spoke to her. It was an entirely alien experience. _Thank God for Varric and his inane nicknames._ She vastly preferred “Princess” to anything anyone else was calling her.

            “Well,” Darcy leaned her hands on the side of the war table. “All right, I guess.”

            “Marvelous,” the always diplomatic Josephine Montilyet nodded graciously and dismissed them.

            Cullen held the door for her, pulling it shut behind them once she was in the hall. He seemed to want to say something, so she hesitated just long enough for him to clear his throat earnestly, thereby confirming her suspicions. _You're not as stoic as you think you are, Launcelot_. “Don’t worry,” he told her. His voice pitched low to avoid eavesdroppers. “You’re better with your blades than you think you are. You just have to trust yourself.” He was close enough that she could smell him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on the scent. Earthy and musky and something a little herbal, mixed together with the now familiar smell of leather. Everything here was some combination of leather, metal, and wood. He was looking down at her with a slightly crooked smile and a twinge of pink on his ears that she made an immediate mental note to memorize for future use.

            “I’ll take the Iron Bull with me,” she said, hoping to calm the growing knot of butterflies in her stomach. The giant minotaur mercenary that had folded his merry band of misfits into the Inquisition's ranks the week before was crass as hell, in a way that reminded her very much of some of the guys she'd known in college. “He’s like a seven foot wall. I’ll be okay.”

            “Good.” He smiled again, turned on his heel and strode away.

 

            They left for the Hinterlands just after first light the next day, Darcy and Varric downing several cups of coffee each while two of the stable hands got their horses ready. Horses, at least, she could do. Growing up in Girl Scouts had taught her how to ride, camp, make fires, mark trails, and generally take care of herself on her own. She had never been more grateful for those skills than she was now.

            She raised a weary hand to her horse’s snout and offered it the apple she had nicked from the kitchens the night before. The immense mare nibbled happily before crunching away at the apple, allowing Darcy to easily swing into the saddle. She was wearing armour – a linen tunic under a leather duster tied around her waist with a thick sash, held in place with a stiff leather belt that had all manner of pockets on it. Soft leather pants that clung to her (slightly ample) legs and tucked neatly into those same boots she had been wearing for a month. The duster had long, velvety sleeves that went all the way down her arm and extended down the back of her hands, held on to her middle finger by a loop. It wasn’t too heavy, thankfully, and it included a few hidden pockets for knives and a sling across her back that held a tall walking stick. _Well, not a walking stick. A staff. A staff for magic. I have a magical staff strapped to my back._

            And just when that seemed like the strangest thought in her head, the great minotaur called the Iron Bull sidled up to her on the biggest horse she had ever seen. “Mornin’ Boss,” he grinned at her. _Damn all morning people_ , she thought in earnest.

            “Morning,” she nodded back dimly.

            “Are we ready?” Seeker Pentaghast, which was Cassandra’s formal title, was already steering her stallion towards the path out of Haven.

            “As we’ll ever be, Seeker,” Varric winked at Darcy and turned his mount to follow Cassandra out of camp.

            They rode for hours. Hours and hours and hours. It felt like an eternity to Darcy. Varric went to ride next to the Seeker for most of the journey, and the Iron Bull made jovial conversation while she tried to forget how much her ass hurt. The sun was high in the sky – early afternoon, one or two o’clock, if Darcy had to guess – when the Seeker called for them to dismount and continue on foot.

            Varric hung back, tying their horses to a set of large trees on the edge of a pond, and Darcy stayed safely shielded behind the immense wall that was the Iron Bull. Just over a small knoll they saw a worn, wooden cabin with a half dozen or so men outside. One, with black hair and a thick padded jacket, seemed to be issuing orders to the rest – all much younger and fairly scared looking. There was no real or sure way to be sure that this was the man Leliana was looking for than to ask, but Darcy had a reasonable instinct that "Grey Warden" might translate to "burly mountain man".

            “Blackwall?” Darcy stepped forward, ignoring the hand that Cassandra threw out to keep her back. “Warden Blackwall?”

            He turned and gave her an appraising look: head to toe, with enough intensity to make her toes curl. “You’re not…” He decided with a cock of his head. “How do you know my name?” He strode toward her purposefully, making no mistakes about intent or destination: he was coming straight for her. “Who sent…?” But before he could finish the thought, his eyes darted to the side, and he threw his shield up in just enough time to catch an arrow that had been heading straight for Darcy’s temple. “Help, or get out,” he growled at her. “We’re dealing with these idiots first.”

            Before she knew what was happening Warden Blackwall had lunged away, sword in hand and slashing at the man who had shot the arrow. Cassandra was slamming her shield into a tall, burly man, throwing him back against a tree with enough force to knock him unconscious; and the Iron Bull roared so loudly that when the three men nearest him turned to see what had made the bone-shattering noise, he actually managed to actually shatter a few of their bones with the great axe he carried across his shoulders.

           The fight had broken out so quickly that she didn't even know how to react properly. She was petrified, rooted to the spot, and one of the attackers was headed straight towards her with daggers drawn, looking about ready to run her through without a second thought. Darcy's eyes blew wide open. _This is it. This is how I die. Shouldn't my life be flashing before my eyes or something?_ In the clearing near their horses, the others were fighting back with (from the look of it) relatively little effort. But here she was, terrified and tense with the newness of it all. Over his shoulder, she saw the Warden’s forehead crease as he assessed how much time he had before the woman in front of him was fully gutted. When he snarled and lifted his sword to charge, something in Darcy ignited the very real possibility that she was, in fact, about to be stabbed. Possibly to death. Her chest started to vibrate, followed by a humming that seems to come straight from her blood itself: thrumming down her arms and jumping nervously between her fingertips. She felt the electricity before she even saw it, and the feeling distracted her long enough that her attacker managed to gouge an enormous laceration into her right forearm. Her fingers exploded like a Tesla coil, striking purple fire into the man now crumpling at her feet. She couldn't be sure whether it was her sparks or Blackwall's sword that had truly brought him down, but down he went. She had a great slash mark down her arm and she screamed louder than she had ever screamed in her life, falling to her knees and clutching at the wound, tears streaming down her face.

            _I just killed someone. I just shot lightning out of my hands and killed a man._ Her mind was reeling. _I am a murderer. A monster. I should be dragged away and thrown in jail. I should be killed in return. Oh God…what have I done?_

            Varric was kneeling beside her, pressing a little bottle of something red into her uninjured hand. “Drink,” he ordered, and when she did not - could not? - immediately comply, he pressed the little bottle to her lips and tipped her head back to force her to swallow. “Breathe,” he reminded her, when he heard that she was holding her breath. A deep tingle in her arm turned into a slight vibration, like she was quivering right down to her cells - that seemed to be the only way to explain magic, it was pure vibration and instinct. The gash down her arm went from searing to burning to a dull ache in a matter of a single minute. “Can you move?” He asked gently. His voice was hushed and his forehead rested against hers. She just shook her head. “Right.” He stood up. “Just hang on, Princess, okay?”

            The nickname didn’t sound loving this time. It sounded like being poked with a red-hot iron. He had commended her for her self-sufficiency just a week before, and now she was kneeling in the dirt staring at the body of a dead man. _A man that I killed. Me. I am a murderer._

            The voice that sounded next to her head – she knew it was next to her but it felt a million miles away – was gruff and unfamiliar. “He deserved it,” even without being familiar, it was low and reassuring. “He would have killed you without a second thought. He doesn’t deserve your pity.” It was the Warden next to her – face drawn in stern disquiet. He was studying her, reading the blank terror that had swept across her entire body. “You’ve never killed before, have you?” He asked quietly.

            She managed to shake her head, eyes never leaving the body sprawling in front of her.

            “The first time is always the hardest.” He reached out cautiously and put one of his large, calloused hands over her small, soft ones. “That’s not to say it will ever be easy for you. But this is the hardest one.”

            “I killed him,” she managed to whisper, when the garbled sounds of crying subsided.

            “In order to save your own life,” he reminded her. There was something kind in the way he spoke now – as opposed to the rough, intimidating tone he had used when she first walked up the path. His voice was almost soft. “Can you stand?” He asked, an echo of Varric’s earlier question. When she opened her mouth to answer but nothing came out, he locked one hand under her uninjured arm and gave her a strong shove upwards.

            He was immensely strong: the kind of strong that you expected a circus strongman to be, not a middle-aged man in the woods. He brought her to her feet with almost no effort, dusting her off and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, standing in front of her to block her view of the man on the ground. “Come back to your friends, my lady.”

            She let him tug her away, making a wide half circle around the body and heading towards the horses. He didn’t let go of her until her other hand was on her horse’s bridle, and then he gently set the hand he had been holding onto the bridle next to it.

            “You shouldn’t have brought her,” he was glowering at Cassandra. “A girl like that? She doesn’t deserve to have the memory of killing someone.”

            “This,” Cassandra snapped, dragging him away from the group. “Is the Herald of Andraste. She cannot be shielded from her duties.”

            “Killing is the duty of a soldier, not a saint.” He cast a look back at her in time to see the Iron Bull lift her into her saddle and clasp a hand on her shoulder.

            “Join us,” Cassandra asked, when the Warden turned back to her. “The Inquisition needs your help.”

            “Why me?” Warden Blackwall crossed his arms and stared the Seeker down. “Why an old man who’s spent the better part of his life wandering the woods and recruiting farmers' sons?”

            “Because you could make a difference,” Cassandra nodded back at Darcy. “You have integrity, Warden Blackwall. And good men are exactly what the Inquisition needs.”

            He paused; looking from the Seeker to the woman perched on her too-large horse between the dwarf and the qunari, both of whom were doing their best to ease her obvious pain. If the wind blew too hard it threatened to knock her clean to the ground, the way she was shaking in her saddle. She was the one they were hailing as Andraste's chosen? The poor woman, she didn't deserve a life like that. She deserved comfort, education, fine things and fine company. She needed someone to protect her, someone to lean on. He found himself suddenly desperately wanting to be that someone. “Aye,” he assented, after a weighty silence. “I could be a good man.” He nodded to the Seeker and tugged at the hem of his jacket self-consciously. “I’ll gather my things. Won’t be but a few moments.”

            On the ride back to Haven, the others gave Darcy a wide birth of space. She wasn’t saying more than a few words at a time to any of them, and they all knew too well the racing thoughts spiraling through her head – they had all felt them too, at one time or another. It was well after dark when they crossed the immense bridge into camp, and Darcy mindlessly lead her horse towards the stables with the others in tow.

            The rest of the group dismounted in silence, handing their mounts off to the stable hands and heading for their tents. Darcy, in her continual trance, faltered at once when she tried to move her leg.

            “Down you go,” the Warden was next to her, hands on her hips, pulling her gently out of her saddle. His arms cinched her waist on her way to the ground and he deposited her gingerly on her feet, making sure she could stand of her own accord before stepping back.

            “Thank you,” she murmured.

            “It’s the least I could do, my lady.” He had tired, smoky blue eyes that seemed to be able to look right through her.

 _You can see how weak I am. You can see what a weak, horrible, monstrous person I am. Why are you so nice to me?_ “Don’t call me that,” she shook her head a little.

            He smiled a little and stepped back again. “Good night, my lady.”


	5. Sleepless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, too, has undergone some pacing and detail edits, as of 10 September. Thanks for hanging in there while I tweak the language.

            No one bothered Darcy for the several days after they returned from the Hinterlands. One of the elves from the kitchens left her meals on a tray outsider her door, and Josephine dropped off a short report of each morning’s war council meeting with her lunch. She didn’t even leave her room until supper time on the third day. Having left her meals generally untouched, she was now starving and went out into camp to find food. Having things brought to her by servants was just as unnerving as being called “my lady”.  _No one from Rhode Island has been a "lady" since the Gilded Age_ , she thought ruefully. An unbidden thought crept across her mind: the Warden called her that. Where was the Warden now? _He came back with us. He must be here somewhere._ She shuffled her feet towards the tavern to find something to eat and willing herself not to dwell on the memory of inhuman strength and smoky blue eyes - almost walking into Cullen on her way down the path.

            “I’m so sorry, my lady,” he shot back a step and held one hand against his waist as though he were trying to straighten out his armour.

            “It’s okay,” she murmured, with a mental groan at the honourific. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

            “Are you…” he trailed off, pulling a hand to the back of his neck. “Are you feeling any better?”

            “No.” She forced herself to look at him. _You kill people all the time. All of you do. How do you sleep at night?_

            Cullen surveyed her without a dose of subtlety, as if she were one of his recruits. “Adan has a sleeping potion,” he bent his head slightly. “Dreamless sleep. You seem like you could use it.”

            _Damn right I could. And if I had my way, I’d never wake up again._  “Thank you, Cullen.”  _Don't be ungrateful. He's certainly not obligated to help you get any sleep after becoming a fucking murderer. Let him help, if he thinks he can. God knows it'll be welcome, if it works._

            She made to step past him, but he caught her arm gently in one large hand. “I couldn’t sleep for four days, after my first,” he confided. “Defending yourself doesn’t make you a demon. But it can be haunting.”

            “It certainly is that,” a thick stream of tears snaked down her cheek and she immediately sniffed it back. _Great. Now the knight-in-shining-armour has seen you cry. You're falling apart, Darcy, piece by piece._

            “Don’t be ashamed,” he kept his eyes on hers. “You show more compassion than he deserves. It speaks to a good heart.”

            _What the hell do I even say to that? Everyone around here is acting like I did something noble._ She bit her lip and held back the rest of the tears that were threatening to break through. “Good night, Cullen.”

            “Good night, my lady.” He took his hand off her arm and unconsciously smoothed a wrinkle out with his thumb before he walked away.

            _I really, really need a drink now._ She dragged her feet all the way to the tavern, got a bottle of whatever the strongest thing Flissa had behind the counter was, and stalked over to an empty corner: all thought of food banished from her mind. Alone with her brooding. That’s what she needed to be. _Why did I even bother leaving my room? Why didn’t I just lay on my bed until I passed out? Why did I ever fucking stay here in the first place? The only assholes with knives in Providence could figure out that I didn't have a cent to steal from just a glance._

            “You shouldn’t drink alone, my lady,” said the figure that blocked out the light from the fireplace. “It doesn’t solve anything and there’s no one to fill in the blanks if you black out.”

            She peered up at Warden Blackwall and waved vaguely at the bench next to her. “I was looking for you, anyway,” she admitted.  _Maybe alone isn't a great idea. Drunk is, but maybe not alone._ _  
_

“You were?”

            “Mm,” she nodded slightly. “I never…” she looked up again when he didn’t sit. “I never…thanked you, I guess." _I never thanked you for treating me like a flower with loose petals. Because I'll never admit out loud that that's exactly how I felt._  "You didn’t have to do shit for me, that day. But you stopped that arrow and you…you know what you did…after.”

            Somewhere inside his immense beard, Darcy thought she saw him smile. “My lady is kind.” He tucked himself onto the bench and she passed him the bottle.

            “Your lady much prefers her first name.” She watched him drink: swallowing easily, long since immune to the burn of cheap liquor. “It’s Darcy.”

            There was a momentary glint in his eye – a sparkle or a flash, perhaps – that he cast down at the table, hoping she wouldn’t see. “As my lady wishes.”


	6. Mages Among Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the extra length on this chapter will make up for the few days it took to post.  
> Tension, ahoy!

            “What else was I supposed to do?” Darcy was arguing with the Seeker for the third time that day. “They were betrayed! Lied to! Manipulated! Was I just supposed to walk away from them and leave them to rot?”

            “Of course not,” Cassandra fumed. “But you should have consulted me first.”

            “You said that the point of going to Redcliffe at all was to the get the mages to help us. Well, I did that, didn’t I?”

            “Yes, you did.” She was huffing while she walked – striding forward on legs much more powerful than the Herald’s and making no effort to show her annoyance that Darcy wasn’t keeping up. “If you will remember, I supported your decision in front of the war council.”

            “Then why are you acting like I just stabbed you in the back and gave the knife a good, solid twist?”

            “Because the decision was not yours alone to make. Having the mages join us as equals will cause struggles all over camp. The pilgrims will be on edge, the former Templars amongst our soldiers grow more restless every hour. And on top of it, you have invited a Tevinter mage to stay at your side in your travels.”

            “The Templars can damn well get over it. They left the order to join us. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that means they should be working _with_ the mages, not caging them.”

            “No one is being caged, Herald…”

            “And beyond that, I never would have made it back from the future without Dorian’s help. He helped prevent the entire alternate timeline. He deserves to stay, if only for that.”

            “I did not say…”

            “The mages are already helping in camp. Our soldiers are being sent out to the field with healers, now. That means fewer serious injuries and therefore fewer deaths.” Darcy stopped suddenly when she saw that Cassandra was smirking. “What?”

            “You are finally settling in to your role here.” The Seeker crossed her arms appraisingly. “Passion suits you well.”

            Darcy’s annoyance fizzled visibly. “Are you done prodding me, Seeker?”

            “For now.” Cassandra headed into Josephine’s office, leaving Darcy standing alone in the middle of the Chantry.

            It was now almost two months since Darcy had woken up with irons on her wrists and a gash in her hand. She was still training with Cullen and Solas every day, becoming more capable with her weapons. Josephine was pleased that she was finally able to remember all of the names and about half of the politics involved in their current dealings with the Chantry and throughout Ferelden (which she knew now to be the country to the east of Haven, full of rocky terrain and grumpy farmers). They had been to Val Royeaux to confront the conservative clerics and face down a very surly group of Templars, coming back to camp with a crazy little elf and an entitled enchantress in tow. She had stood toe-to-toe with an angry queen and claimed a group of rebel mages as allies for the growing Inquisition after being flung forward a year into the future with the dapper-est motherfucker she’d ever met in her life. She was facing a wave of madness each and every day. It was the most insane two months of her entire life.

            And she was beginning to enjoy it.

            In her quarters she had set up a small collection of useful items, mostly given to her by her new friends, but a few bought from the smith or the quartermaster with what little money she had come to earn. A pint mug from Varric stood in the corner far corner of her desk, always ready to be tied onto her pack when they went on short trips into Redcliffe or own of the camps nearby. Next to it sat a little stack of books borrowed from Josephine or Solas or both, and beyond that was the stack of reports that Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen were constantly having delivered to her. There seemed to be never-ending business to take care of, and she was now included in all of it.

            On the windowsill she kept the small wooden bird that Blackwall had carved for her. He had been more than kind since he joined the Inquisition, having met her in the way that he did. He was attentive to her moods, and had begun joining her for either a meal or a drink, depending on what her day had in store.

            In the corner behind her bed she had propped two magical staves – one from Solas and one from Dorian. They were both magnificent: burnished wood with cloth wrapped at the places she gripped most frequently, and the one from Dorian had a razor sharp rectangular blade on the end for use in battle.

            She had come into a great deal more contact with death since the bandits outside Blackwall’s cabin. It seemed that she couldn’t leave camp without coming across someone who tried to kill them. And to her companions’ credit, they did their very best to shield her from having to actually kill anyone herself. Her total body count was now up to three, and she was continuously reminding herself that she needed to stop counting. The idea of it continued to terrify her. Death by melee (or by archer, or mage, for that matter) was not a part of everyday life at home. The fact that it was now necessary to consider in the regular machinations of her life was both astounding and awful.

            Cullen had commissioned the camp blacksmith to make her a set of daggers. The blades were a brilliant dark blue colour and the hilts fit neatly into her long hands. They even had sturdy black sheaths that buckled onto her armour (which she had learned how to clean and polish by herself, because the idea of having servants was almost as alien as the reality of armed combat). Stamped into the sheaths were the eye of the Inquisition – the symbol that was embroidered into every tapestry and every uniform all over camp. That had been Cassandra’s doing – an effort to make Darcy feel like she was a true part of the team, or perhaps a tiny gesture of apology for arresting her and nearly having her executed when they first met. Her pack and the few pieces of clothing that she had managed to purchase were tucked away in a small dresser, and that was it. That was all she had here. And, since it seemed she may never find her way out of this elaborate rabbit hole, perhaps all she might ever have again.

            The room was tiny – barely larger than her college dormitory had been – and it was always cold. It seemed to snow everyday: an inch here, a dusting there, so that you could never quite chase the chill from your bones. Her window was cinched tight against the cold but she crawled under the covers anyway.

            _All right,_ she told herself. _Close your eyes and concentrate._ Every day it got harder to remember what her apartment looked like. Of course, at this point, she had probably been evicted, fired, and maybe even listed as officially missing – but only if her landlord or boss had contacted the police. There was no one else who would really notice. _Maybe Clarence?_ But he wouldn’t find it strange enough to call the cops about. It was winter now and campers would be few and far between, even die hards like her. _What I really miss is my shower. And Netflix. And the Thai place down the blocks that always delivers in under half an hour no matter how much I order._

            Everything she had here smelled like wood smoke. It clung to her linen shirts and tangled in her hair. Her pants had grass stains and dirty water marks from her training – she would probably never be good at cleaning leather – and the cloying smell of a weed called elfroot (used for about a thousand different things, it seemed) stuck to her gloves. _And deodorant. I miss deodorant._ Thank God for herbs, smoke, and leather, because antiperspirants didn’t exist here. _I can get it back together. I have enough in the bank to catch up on rent. I’m more than qualified for another office job, if I need to find something new._ But how? That was always the road block.

            The only idea she could come up with was that great, green gash that had brought her here in the first place. Solas said it wasn’t closed entirely – that she had only mended it before, not fixed it fully. That was the point of recruiting the mages. They needed extra power for her to “channel” into closing it for good. _If I can figure out how to control my magic,_ she snorted at the thought, _maybe I can slingshot myself back through the thing before it closes. Just fling myself back into the real world._ It was as good a plan as any, really.

            She laid there, eyes closed, and willed herself to fall asleep. When she managed to evade the nightmares about electrocution, she dreamt of flush toilets. _At least_ , she thought while she stared at the insides of her eyelids. _At least the people here aren’t awful._ People were people, there was no mistaking that, but manners did wonders to make ordinary attitudes seem vastly more tolerable. For the most part, men in suits were just like men in armour – they could be surly or misogynistic or polite depending on their mood. Women here were warriors, wives, scholars, artists – everything they were at home. _Home. Is that what this is? Is longing desperately for my dysfunctional radiator and decade-old comforter a kind of homesickness?_ The knot in her stomach twisted mercilessly.  She had been here too long – spent too little time trying to figure out how to get back. _This isn’t a fucking vacation, Darce. This isn’t some whack job medieval theme park._

            Her mattress was crunchy and sagged when she rolled over to face the wall. Curled up in fetal position, knees to her chest and fists balled up under her nose, she could almost pretend everything was normal. _Any minute, the delivery guy will be knocking on the front door. You’ll get up from your nap and eat pad thai while you binge watch Twin Peaks again._ She said it over and over in her head, screaming it at herself until she was almost ready to believe it.

            She was so close to convincing herself that it was true that she even heard a knock at the door. _See? Dinner’s here. Time to wake up, Darcy._

            But the door creaked open, and she heard a soft, “My lady?” from the doorway.

            _Shit. So close._ She wiped at her eyes with her fingertips. She couldn’t remember giving in to the tears, but they were there. “Yes?” She asked vaguely.

            Blackwall nudged the door open a little further with his hip. “You didn’t come to the tavern for dinner.” He was barely in the doorframe, as though he were afraid of coming inside. “I…” he stumbled over the thought. “I wanted to make sure you were well.”

            “I’m fine,” she mumbled, still wiping ineffectually at her eyes while she sat up.

            “Pardon me for saying so, my lady, but you don’t sound it.”

            “Blackwall, I really don’t – ” she was about to tell him off for butting in at all when she finally looked over at him and saw that he was holding a bowl of something steaming hot and a bottle of wine. “What’s that?”

            He blushed ever so slightly and shrugged his shoulders. “You need to eat,” was all he said. He just stood there, looking at her. _Like I’m special_ , she was a little ashamed of the thought. _He looks at me like I’m not just…ordinary._

            His lips curled into a shy half smile and he inched forward towards her desk. “I’ll just leave these, my lady. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” And then he did smile – warm and genuine: “Forgive an old man for worrying?”

            Something burbled up in her throat when he turned to leave. “Wait!” The word strangled on its way out, startling them both. She smacked her forehead down into her palms. _Way to sound like an idiot, Darcy,_ she chastised herself. “I mean…would you stay?” It was her turn to blush. “I hate eating alone.” _Ironic, for a girl who’s lived on her own for almost ten years._

            “As my lady wishes.” He pulled out a chair when she slipped off the bed and held it out to her.

            _Are you kidding me?_ Asked the voice in her head, but she said, “Thank you,” and sat, instead.

            The room was suddenly unbearably tense, as Blackwall dragged the only other chair in the room up a foot or two away from her and pulled nervously at his beard. “May I ask you something, my lady?”

            “Only if you call me Darcy.” She poured some wine into her tankard and handed it to him. It was months now, and everyone refused to call her by her first name. _I would never survive as royalty. Too many titles._

            He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I was wondering,” he glanced up and caught her looking at him, “Darcy…”

            _Nope. Stop it. He can FEEL you undressing him in your mind. Eyes up, Darcy. Eyes forward._ She was forgetting that it was his eyes that always held her captive. _Shit. So close._

            “…whether or not you…that is to say…have you…” he took a drink from the tankard and shook his head. “Forgive me, words are not my weapon of choice.”

            “Weapon?” She raised one eyebrow mischievously. “Are we going to spar?”

            At that, his entire face flushed red. “I fear that Commander Cullen would find that most disagreeable,” he folded his hands in his lap and twiddled his thumbs anxiously.

            “Why would Cullen care?” She didn’t even pause eating to ask the question.

            “Oh…” Blackwall’s hands picked up speed in their fidgeting. “I only meant that he takes your safety very seriously, my lady.”

            “Then why do you look so guilty?” _You look like you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar. And it’s adorable, so I’m not going to point out that you didn’t use my name._

As hard as he was trying to look serious and put together, he couldn’t help the wry spark in the way he was looking at her. “Because you’re flirting with me, my lady.”

            She had only ever seen this side of Blackwall once before. They had stayed in the tavern long after Varric had gone to bed, and Darcy had made a crude joke about what she might do now that they were alone. _That spark could set my fingers on fire for a month_ , she had thought then, bound by the intensity of his look. “I am, aren’t I?” She couldn’t resist a smirk.

            At home, she never really flirted. She could, of course, because her college roommate had taught her the coy little smiles and hair tosses that got undergraduates laid at frat parties – but there was no one she wanted to flirt with. The guys that the other receptionists set her up with were all too awkward or too snobbish. The barista that made her coffee every morning was attractive enough if you liked gangly, but he was young enough that she could have babysat him in high school. The only other men she had regular contact with were her boss and her delivery guy. She didn’t exactly have good odds.

            But here, in his menagerie of weird (and weirdly sincere) humans, elves, dwarves, and oxmen (qunari still sounded like something entirely made up as far as she was concerned); here there were men who were not only handsome, but kind. Interesting. Smart. Philosophical. It was shallow, sure, but she was enjoying the hell out of it.

            _Oh god. He’s been saying something and I’m just sitting here staring at him like an idiot. Way to fucking go, Darcy. Shit like this is why you go years at a time without having sex. Good. Fucking. Job._

            “…I just wanted you to know that.” He was smiling a little, back to looking bashful.

            _Just wanted me to know what? Awesome. That was probably the ‘back off, I’m not interested’ speech and you just drowned it out with thinking about his eyes._

            She was about to sputter something like “It’s okay,” or “Don’t worry about it,” when she shot her hand out nervously for the wine bottle and it landed on top of his – he was moving to pour more into his cup and had beat her to the neck of the bottle by just a split second. _The first time you’re not wearing those stupid leather gloves and it has to be when I’m tripping over myself to not be an idiot?_

            Most people, when they experience the tension between themselves and someone they are mutually attracted to, will talk about sparks. Metaphoric fireworks that set their blood to pumping and their hearts to beating.

            Darcy was not, she was quickly finding, most people.

            The air crackled around her and everything seemed to slow down slightly all in the same instant that a small bolt of electricity shot out of her hand and made a direct hit on the stack of reports Josephine had given her that morning – barely missing Blackwall’s knuckles and somehow only singeing the hair on his fingers.

            Darcy jerked her hand away and threw it behind her back – because if she hid it, it didn’t exist, right?

            They were both staring, both stunned, both completely unsure of what to do next.

            “Um…sorry…” she murmured after an increasingly awkward silence. The stack of papers was burnt right down the middle, her energy strike having hit them dead center. She made a mental note to throw herself into the fireplace after them later on, to end this abominable embarrassment.

            “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Blackwall looked a little sheepish under all that discomfiture.

            “No,” she shook her head. “No, it’s not you. The – uh – the sparks…have a mind of their own.” _Sure, because that made sense._ She suppressed a groan.

            “Maybe I should go.” He stood up, but dithered slightly before making a little bow. “Good night,” he paused for a breath that he didn’t know he needed. “Darcy.”


	7. A Dream, and Cullen's Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of POV shifting going on here, to maximize what's going on throughout the chapter. Happy reading and thank you all for being so lovely.

            _W **hat a fucking dream. Happy Monday, Darcy, get out of bed. Shower. Clothes. Breakfast. Or at least a yoghurt. Maybe I’ll get a scone at the coffee shop – a treat for surviving that nightmarish night’s sleep.**_

**_Weird. I don’t remember this dress being green. Maybe I’m just half asleep, still? Whatever. It hardly matters._ **

**_Quiet bedroom, quiet living room. Not even the sound of my upstairs neighbors fighting. Not even a dog barking outside. Maybe everyone’s sleeping in? But what about the birds? They should be out… This place seems oddly empty. Maybe it’s time to get a cat after all? Maybe there’s a crazy cat lady starter kit for women pushing thirty._ **

**_Don’t pay attention to that pit in your stomach. You’re just hungry._ **

**_One foot in front of the other, Darce. Out the door, down the front steps, down to the end of the street. Off to the bus stop._ **

**_“Mornin’ Princess,” says the bus driver – a little man with his hair half pulled back who looks oddly familiar. But of course he looks familiar. That’s what happens when you take the same bus every day._ **

**_“Please, sit,” a man with a beard offers his seat._ **

**_Have they installed new lights on the buses? The whole morning has the oddest tint to it…_ **

**_Behind the bearded man is a group of four – one well-groomed man and three beautiful women – all giggling and gossiping. A sour-looking bald man and a giant in the back. Why are they looking at me like that? Is my dress on inside out?_ **

**_Across the aisle in an athletic man – handsome, staring unabashedly, smiling and blushing. Everything looks like slime in this light, but his eyes aren’t supposed to be green. I don’t know how, but I know they’re supposed to be the colour of honey._ **

**_What are you all doing here? You’re not supposed to be here. This is real. Busses and business dresses and lattes. That’s real. Not pointed ears and longswords and spymasters._ **

**_The bus is beginning to shake. Rattling them around like matches in an over-sized box. Pitching them back and forth. Throwing them around. Why aren’t any of you hanging on? Grab a bar, or your chair. Reach for something!_ **

**_One hand on my ankle as the bottom of the bus falls away. Another reaches for my waist. If I twist, I can catch them all. Or at least I can catch some, and they can catch each other. Hands on shoulders, arms, waist, legs, feet._ **

**_Hang on._ **

**_Just hang on._ **

**_I’ll save you._ **

            Screaming was never a good sign, in Cullen’s experience. Especially screaming in the middle of the night, when he thought everyone was finally asleep besides himself and the night watch. And there was no mistaking the direction that scream was coming from.

            Without a note of hesitance, he slammed open the door of the Herald’s quarters, expecting to find her fighting off some kind of attacker. The best he could tell. However, her most dangerous foe was her blanket. She kicked it off viciously, clawing at her pillow and thrashing spasmodically, twisting around herself. She was deep, deep in the Fade.

 

            **_Hands on shoulders that push and pull, eyes that won’t leave me. Why is everyone looking at me like that?_**

**_Sweating too hard. Starting to lose my grip._ **

**_It will all turn red before it goes to black, I’m sure of it._ **

No time to be precious about it, not with the Herald writhing and crying in her sleep. He took her shoulders in his hands and carefully held them still. “Darcy?” He kept his voice low and even, an effort to be comforting – to not startle her – but still forceful enough to be commanding. “Darcy, you need to wake up.”

 

            **_Too sweaty. I won’t be able to hold on much longer. I’m sorry, everyone. I’m sorry that…_**

 

            She shot up in bed, gasping for air and shaking with dry sobs, landing hard on Cullen’s shoulder with a bracing thud that whipped her eyes open and knocked out what little breath she had left. Anyone’s natural instinct would have been to hold her tight against them, to shield her with a bracing hug – but Cullen knew nightmares better than the average man, and he stayed stark still, letting her make the decision of how much contact or comfort she needed.

            When the shaking subsided and she was able to draw a deep enough breath, she looked over in utter disbelief. “Cullen?” She could barely manage a whisper before she curled herself around his arm and leaned against the solid bulk of him, wrenching back another wake of sobs.

            “It was a nightmare,” he whispered back. “Just a dream. You’re awake now.”

            “Am I?” She chuffed a half-laugh, half-sob and held tight to him.

            “Yes,” he promised. “Awake, in your quarters, in Haven.” As if to prove his point, he tucked an errant strand of short black hair behind her ear.

            “Is this what awake is?” She murmured absently.

            He smiled amiably and put one hand to her back when she kneaded his shoulder with her palms. “What else would it be?”

            “Right.” She shrank back from him, shifting across her mattress until her back was pressed against the wall. “Of course. You’re right.”

            “I’ve said something wrong.” Let it never be said that Cullen Rutherford could not state the obvious. “Forgive me.”

            “No,” she shook her head and hooked her arms under her knees, pulling them up near her chin. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

            “I’ll see Adan tomorrow for more sleeping draught,” he offered, feeling inexplicably like he needed to flee the scene.

            “Cullen?” She looked tired, crumpled against the wall like that. Worn – not just from lack of sleep. He wavered between coming and going, finally sitting back down on the edge of the bed. She seemed to be waiting for it, because she peered at him a little before going on. “I know this is going to sound crazy…” she worried her bottom lip and rubbed absently at the lavender circles under her eyes. “But…have you ever had a dream so good you never wanted to wake up?”

            He laughed – actually laughed right from the pit of his stomach. “I hope I didn’t just wake you up from one.”

            “Stop teasing me,” she pouted lamely, almost betraying the ghost of a smile. “I’m serious.”

            He sighed. It had been years since he’d had anything but nightmares. If anything else ever made its way across his mind, it hadn’t been for long enough to hold on to. “I don’t know,” he told her finally. “If I have, it was too long ago to remember.”

            She reached for his hand tentatively, resting her fingers against his lam when he moved to accept the gesture.  “Sometimes I feel like Haven is a dream.” It was a confession, whispered in confidence, shared between two people who feared the dark more than they feared being alone.

            “Well,” he wet the corner of his mouth reflexively and squeezed her hand. “I suppose – I’m glad you feel that way.”

            “I just don’t know about this Herald thing.” She inched away from the wall. It almost seemed like she was slowly becoming less afraid. Of being awake? Of talking to him? He didn’t know.

            “We don’t know any more than you do,” he promised her. “We’re all figuring it out as we go.”

            “That’s comforting.”

            “It’s true.”

            She kept her eyes on him, considering him. He knew his forehead was drawn – worry painted across his face like a banner. “I just,” she looked down at their hands, dropped between them casually. Truly, she looked as if she didn’t know how to form the words she needed to say. “I don’t know if I know how to…” she smiled faintly. “I don’t know how to save the world. I can barely keep my thoughts straight.”

            _Oh, Maker…_ he thought suddenly. _Did you have to do this to her? Put it all on her like this? How much else has she been through? What else will she have to go through before we’re done? Will we ever be done?_

            All he could really say was, “You don’t have to do it alone.” And when she surged forward to hug him as tightly as she could, he held her back. _You will never be without help. You will never be alone in this. Not as long as I am next to you. Not as long as I have breath left in me. I will always be there to help you._

           

            Darcy had the same hellish nightmare every night for a week: the emptiness of her life at home, punctured abruptly by the appearance of faces she had met in Haven, and life – or a bus crash, or a sickness, or a fire, or anything really – would threaten to take them away. Every night, it took the threat of losing them to wake her up, gasping for air. Most nights she would stare at her gray stone walls, tracing their cracks and peaks in the moonlight until either the dawn came or her body collapsed under the exhaustion, which would always treat her to another round of the nightmare.

            On the third night, when Cullen was once again at her bedside when her eyes flew open, he had pressed a sleeping potion into her hand before he left the room. On the sixth night, he brought a chess set instead.

            “Why are you always so close when I am at my worst?” She had asked while he set up the board.

            “Because I have just as much trouble sleeping as you, and am also too stubborn to do anything to help it,” he had waved a hand at the little draught vial on her windowsill.

            “So you creep outside my bedroom until I start freaking out in my sleep?” She had teased.

            That had made him smile. “I pray,” he clarified. “It just so happens that you are currently living in the Chantry.”

            “Well, thank the Maker for that, then.” She had said, hoping she had gotten the phrasing right. And then, for reasons she couldn’t quite add up, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on one cheek before sitting back and moving her first pawn. She thought, vaguely, that she felt a tingle ring through her blood, right into her chest, warming her through.


	8. Going Home

            As the planned assault on the Breach ticked closer, Darcy was starting to think she might have made a very serious error in judgement. (Well, alright, she knew she had made an error. But now she was beginning to feel just how markedly it was effecting her).

            War council meetings were now (if it was possible) even more tense. The constant arguing about the correct course of action on any given issue was punctuated with the feeling of Cullen’s eyes on her, and it made her skin itch and tingle in an incessant nag – to the point of having to excuse herself to meditate on one particularly intense morning. _Anything to keep from setting the battle map on fire. Anything to make sure Josephine and Leliana don’t see him looking at me like that._ But she wasn’t foolish enough to think they didn’t know about the screaming nightmares and the midnight visits. Leliana knew everything, and Josephine was one of the most perceptive people she had ever met.

            When she could get away from the limitless tension of the war room, there was plenty enough discomfort with her other friends. Two days ago, Dorian had made a joke about how inseparable she and Blackwall seemed to be, and when she had sputtered incoherently about how it was none of his business who she spent her time with, Varric had just snickered and started scribbling in his notebook. She hadn’t seen Blackwall since.

            Now, as she picked lamely at her breakfast, she could feel the worry creeping through her veins. It was only a few hours away – their grand plan to heal the sky. It was only a few hours until she would be throwing herself blindly through the Fade, back towards her ice-slicked city block that constantly smelled of fast food and trash bins; back to her apartment that desperately needed a cat.

            Cullen’s voice echoed in her head: “We cannot know how you will be effected,” he had said, voice carefully guarded against absolutely any betrayal of emotion. Everyone had the same set of fears, it seemed. Her head reeled with the possibilities: _I could die of the effort before the Breach is completely sealed, or I might fail spectacularly because we don’t have enough power. Better yet, I could actually be able to fix it, but the damn thing might kill me in the process._ There were any number of different outcomes that could either kill her or keep her trapped in this weird corner of the universe. There were any number of things that could go wrong. The voice inside her burbled anxiously: _You wasted too much time. You’re going to fuck it all up. You’re going to ruin everything, somehow. You always do._

            Threaded through all of the doubt was an irrepressible instinct to say goodbye. She had spent months with these people, seeing them work and eating with them and laughing with them, and bonding with them. They were, in an incredibly gloomy way, some of the best friends she had ever had. And she was planning on running away from them without a single word. _At least say goodbye,_ said her conscience. _But how?_

            Before she had time to worry about the mechanics of it, Cassandra was at her side. “The camp is assembled,” she sounded apprehensive at best. “We are prepared to act, as soon as you are ready.”

            _Time to go._ Darcy pushed back from the table in front of her and dusting her hands off on her trousers. “Let me get my things,” she nodded as calmly as she could and strode off towards the Chantry.

            Strapping herself into her armour was like wading through the ocean on a stormy day. Every movement felt lethargic, every new garment was an overwhelming effort. _I’ll make quite a splash if I reemerge anywhere but my own apartment_ , she thought, looking at herself in the mirror. It had been months since she wore any make-up: skin a little mottled but generally blemish-free, eyes that looked much wider than they usually did now that they were free of her eyeliner addiction. She had forgotten that her lips were rosy pink, and not the slash of cherry red that she had adopted so long ago. Her hair had grown noticeably, now past her ears. No earrings in her ears, no nail polish chipped away by the stones around her fire pit. Her hair dresser would have been appalled at how “overgrown” her eyebrows were now. _Although_ , Darcy considered them, _they don’t have too bad a shape on their own._ And she was thinner, now. As thin as she had ever been, maybe. Soft middle-American thighs hardening with continued combat training, squishy mid-section flattened out by simple foods and endless exercise. It wasn’t to say that she had ever really been unhealthy, but now? _I’m actually quite fit, now._

            She stared herself down. No time left to back out. No time to second guess. It’s time to go home. The room around her seemed to shrink as the reality of it sank in. The impulse to cry broke through her but she bit it back, and turned to her desk instead. She took the notebook that Varric had given her and buckled it into the largest pocket on her belt. _If anything I’m wearing manages to make it back with me, I’m going to want this_. And then she found herself staring at the windowsill, and she slipped Blackwall’s little wooden bird into the pocket beside it.

            “Herald?” The knock at her door didn’t startle her anymore, but it took her an extra second to walk away from the windowsill, smoothing her sash under her belt and tugging at the sleeves of her jacket.

            “What is it, Cullen?” She knew that voice.

            He pushed the door open and filled up the doorway, covered in armour from head to toe with that ridiculous fur cloak wrapped around him like a second skin. “How do you feel?” Thought the question was kind, he was fully the Commander when he asked it. Calculating risk, assessing his most important ( _Oh God, really? Most?_ ) soldier.

            She put on her brave face. “Ready to go,” she told him, picking up the bladed battle staff from its corner and slipping it into its harness.

            The walk through the Chantry was like walking to the electric chair. Her whole body was tense, begging her to turn and run, to hide and pretend it would all be gone if she closed her eyes tightly enough. Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra filed in behind them as they walked down the village’s main path. Her friends started to fall into step with them, creating a great V of people that made them look like a flock of birds on the hunt. Varric nodded to her as he fell in behind Cassandra; Sera giggled with glee, giving her a great thumbs up. Dorian raised his fist to his chest in salute when he and the Iron Bull stepped in line behind Leliana. Blackwall tipped his chin solemnly as he came up beside her, offering her a weak attempt at a reassuring affirmation.

            “Everyone else is waiting at the Breach,” Cullen was leading the march on her other side, steering them mechanically through the crowds of pilgrims, towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She allowed herself a deep breath and side glances at the men on either side of her. _For as long as I live, I’ll be subconsciously comparing every date I ever have to these two people. Nothing else will ever come quite close enough to how they’ve treated me. No one will ever be as kind, or understanding, or supportive._ She shook her head a little. _I’ll regret leaving you, most of all._

            At the temple, Solas, Vivienne, and Fiona were getting the mages ready and in place. Cassandra and Cullen sheparded Darcy through the rubble, to the blast zone beneath the Breach. Her friends fanned out around her, silent as the grave. She took one last look as Solas started calling out his orders – as she lifted the staff from its harness and gripped it uncertainly in her hands. She felt her callouses scrape the leather – callouses from the countless hours of carefully instructed practice. Callouses from the extra hours that she had spent twirling the heavy wood around her head and body in the fields outside of camp so that no one would see how much she was enjoying it.

            Their faces were tight. They were nervous, terrified, and worried, just like her. But no one seemed to doubt her, anymore. If anyone could do it, they kept telling her, she could. Dorian smiled when her eyes drifted over him. Varric had his eyes steady on her, willing her to breathe. Blackwall’s sword hand was twitching, ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger. _Bless you_ , she thought appreciatively. _You’ve had my back since word one._ Cullen had his legion of former Templars standing by in case of trouble. His face was a mask, betraying nothing but readiness.

            _I’ll miss you. I’m sorry. I’ll miss you._ The words rolled over and over in her head.

            At Solas’ word, she shifted her staff to her right hand and held out the crackling gash on her left hand, raising it toward the ripped open sky. _It’s time_ , she told herself. The Breach pulsed, rumbled, and shook the air around them as the mages bared down on their staves and surge after surge of  waving green energy shot into the folds of the tear. She felt it pull at her, raising her to her tip toes and whip at her hair.

            She could feel herself being lifted into the pulse of the magic, until suddenly her hand deadened, heavy like a building had just dropped on it. She fell back, air knocked out of her lungs, and the ribbon of magic anchoring her to the Breach snapped in two, careening back into the sky.

            _No!_ Her panicked mind screamed. _That’s not how this works. I’m supposed to be part of that slingshot! I’m supposed to be flung into the sky WITH the magic. I’m supposed to be going home!_

With a loud snap, the Breach slammed shut, knocking everyone off of their feet. Cassandra was the first to jump up again, turning his eyes to the clouds and heaving a great sigh. He reached over and offered her his hand, but she did not take it. She was crumpled on the ground, curled in on herself and too shocked to move.

            _Why am I still here? Why didn’t it work? Why did my only fucking plan completely backfire and leave me here in this insane dimension of knights and magic and elves and fucking fantasy novel bullshit?_ She was reeling, railing, completely broken apart by the utter failure of her one and only idea.

            _But then_ , said a quiet little voice in the back of her head. _What was at home that was so worth getting back to?_


	9. Complications

            Absolutely everyone in Haven was leaping for joy when they marched back up the hill into camp. Cassandra had one arm under Darcy’s armpit, practically dragging her dead feet along in the dirt, Darcy’s face glazed over in marked regret. “You need to rest. Regain your strength,” the Seeker said gently. “But first,” she motioned to the immense expanse of pilgrims gathered outside the Chantry, “first, they need you.” _What more could they possibly want from me?_ She cast weary eyes over the skyline, watching the whirlwind of black and gray that the Breach had left behind.

            When their party came into view, the pilgrims and villagers and disciples of the Inquisition broke out into a raging applause, hollering in unadulterated relief.

            It washed over Darcy like a cold wind, taunting her own personal failure. She was glad, of course, that the world she had spent so much time in was now free and clear to continue on its path – but now, as best as she could tell, she was stuck here. No plans left, no hopes rattling around in her head that she might be able to get back to the embroidered pillowcases and cream-coloured bedclothes that she had so carefully picked out. No way to get back to her books or her military-grade sleeping bag.

            Seeing how close she was to collapsing, Cassandra steered her into the Chantry and let her down on an out of the way bench. “I’ll have some food brought to your quarters,” she offered, but Darcy shook her head.

            “I’ll go to the tavern if I want something.” They were the first words she’d said since before the Breach closed. She realized how angry she sounded, though, and the ache in her body thrummed insistently with a twinge of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she looked up at Cassandra and forced herself to smile. “I don’t mean to sound surly. I’m only tired.” _Tired and furious and defeated._

            “Solas confirms the heavens are scarred but calm,” Cassandra clasped her hands behind her back. “We’ve reports of lingering rifts and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

            Darcy scoffed a little. “You know how many were involved. Just because I have this,” she held up her left hand, still glowing faintly. “Doesn’t mean I did it by myself.”

            She tilted her head, but nodded. “You’re right. This was a victory of alliance. One of the few in recent memory.” She looked tired, too, as if the weight in the sky were pressing her armour harder onto her shoulders. “With the Breach closed, that alliance will need new focus.” Ever the soldier, Cassandra saluted. “But truly, you should rest while you can. I can only imagine the effort it took to close the Breach.”

            Darcy slumped against the wall as she walked away.

            “Oh no,” Varric was leaning in the doorway, eyes directly on her. “No sulking in a corner about the misery of your martyrdom,” he came over to her and perched on the bench. “You’re a trooper, you know that?” He set his hand over hers. “In two months you’ve gone from untrained criminal to battle-ready super mage.” He laughed when she shot him a dirty look. “Look, Princess, all I’m saying is that if anyone deserves a little celebration over this whole thing, it’s you.” When she didn’t look terribly convinced, he curled his fingers around her palm and rocked their hands together reassuringly. “Come on, we’ll get you drunk off your ass in no time.”

            _Now that? That sounds good._

The tavern was overrun with all manner of revelry and their friends were just far enough away to not have to shout to talk to each other, bunched into the courtyard outside Solas’ little cabin. “Oh, splendid!” Dorian pounced on her, pressing wet kisses onto each of her cheeks. “My dear, if I ever find myself longing for a woman’s touch, you will be my first call,” he grinned and turned back to the rest of the group, presenting her in a way that vaguely reminded Darcy of an old red carpet photo of Will Smith and his wife. “My friends, the hero of the hour!”

            They hooted, clapped, and took turns hugging her (except Vivienne, who did not hug, as a general rule). Sera gave her ass an affectionate tap before she trotted away, leaving Blackwall standing in front of her awkwardly. He paused for a moment before taking one of her hands in his and brushing a feather-light kiss over her knuckles.

            “All right,” Darcy said, when the lump in her throat removed itself to her chest. “Varric promised to get me drunk. Who’s helping?” The Iron Bull pressed an enormous bottle of something called “Lava Burst” into her hands and clinked his own bottle against it before taking an enormous swig.

            The drink lived up to its name, burning down her throat and warming her in a heat that radiated out from her belly straight to the tips of her fingers and toes. She sat silent for a while, while Varric spun stories and Sera sprinkled in crude commentary. It was sometime near the middle of Dorian’s account of a raucous party he’d been to in Qarinus that her mind started to wander again. It was probably the humming intoxication that allowed it, for she was now just tipsy enough to drop her hands into her lap and crunch her forehead into a mass of deep furrows. _What the fuck are you going to do now, Darcy? What’s your fucking plan? You’re a goddamn liar and they’re treating you like their savior. You have no fucking clue how to really exist here – how clue how you closed that thing – and they’re celebrating your victory like it’s already some goddamn legend. You don’t deserve a single cent of their praise. If they knew the truth they’d lock you up or worse._

            She saw Blackwall trail away from the group, pacing past the furthest cabin and disappearing behind it. Something in her gut (probably the Lava) nagged at her to go after him. Sneaking a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, she slid off of her bench and trailed quietly behind the cabin.

            “Hey,” she whispered, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “No sneaking off. It’s a party, didn’t you know?”

            He turned around, not bothering to hide the smile that stretched out his eyes and broke through his beard, despite the unremitting melancholy in his eyes. “Then you ought to be celebrating, my lady.”

            “Only if you come with me.” _God lord, Darcy. What the hell are you doing? Get your brain out of your pants._

            They stood still, almost frozen, looking at each other for a full half a minute before she was reaching around his waist and his hands were cupped under her jaw. It wasn’t a kiss so much as it was a desperate plea for proof. He needed to know for sure that she was alive, that she was in front of him, unharmed. She wanted irrevocable evidence that he was real – tangible flesh and bone – not some delusion of a still fevered mind. She could feel that now familiar quivering in her blood as they sank into each other, and for a second all of the voices in her head were blissfully silent. He tasted like whiskey and something salty-sweet, masculine but comforting; and when he broke the kiss she could taste him vividly on her tongue.

            “I’m sorry, my lady,” one of his hands had threaded through her hair while her mind was blank. “That was unworthy of me.”

            “Unworthy?” She involuntarily licked her bottom lip to hold on to the sensation of him against her. “Blackwall…” But really, at this point, she didn’t give a shit about words. She pulled him back in and reveled in how he had to tip his head down several inches to reach her.

            “You deserve better…” he murmured in between kisses, self-effacement worn like a badge.

            “Don’t be an idiot,” she murmured back, without letting him go. His proximity had burned away the alcoholic haze and now it was just him. She could feel his giant hands slide around her waist when the warning bells rang out from the Chantry.

            “Forces approaching!” She heard Cullen shouting above the din. “To arms!” The celebrations around them came to a screeching halt as soldiers reached for their weapons and her friends shot up the path like rockets. She glanced at Blackwall quickly and they sprinted towards the middle of camp.

            “We must get to the gates,” Cassandra, sword drawn and helmet under one arm, was leading the group down the steps.

            The report came in a whirlwind: a massive, banner-less army trooping down the mountains, headed right for their front door. The gaunt boy at the gate who shouted to be let in, only to bring them the news of Red Templars (which, she thought wryly, sounded like a good name for a metal band) and the anger of the Elder One, a name that sent shivers down her spine.

            On a cliff not too far away, a soldier in burnished red and black armour had his greatsword drawn out in front of him. An enormous figure stalked up next to him – and it looked like every demon she had ever conjured up in the youthful terror of her Italian-American Catholic childhood. “Holy Mary, mother of God…” she breathed, crossing herself instinctively. Swallowing the terror that threatened to immolate her from the inside out, she tipped her head to the side. “Cullen, give me a plan. Anything.”

            He recommended control, an offense strategy that would keep the bulk of the army at bay. That being said, he bellowed orders at the mages and his troops, body held taught by a lifetime of training that had led him to this very charge. He looked over at her and roared, “Inquisition, with the Herald!” And, without a second thought. “For your lives – for all of us!”

            Something deep inside of her jolted at the thought. _For your lives._ She motioned for her companions to come closer, while Cullen dove forward to his soldiers. She heard Josephine and Leliana behind her, herding the pilgrims into the Chantry. “Solas, Vivienne, go with Josephine and Leliana. Get a barrier up around the Chantry to keep people safe.” They nodded and dashed back up the steps. “Cassandra, Varric, Sera – round people up. Anybody who’s hurt, get them up to the Chantry. Anyone who needs help, you help them. Got it?”

            Cassandra and Sera ran off towards the tavern and apothecary, and Varric unslung Bianca in one single dramatic motion. “Get the bastards, Princess.” He gave her an over-the-top wink and she remembered with a heavy heartbeat how very much he seemed to believe in her. He ran off after Cassandra with a great, booming laugh.

            She felt the magic surging through her blood, threatening to break free at any moment. “Blackwall, Bull, Dorian, you’re with me.”

            They cut through walls of soldiers, electricity slicing the air and Dorian’s laughing skull waving like a Jolly Roger over the enormous giants covered in spikes that looked like red quartz. Bull’s axe swung in endless circles and Blackwall was a blur of furious steel, snarling venomous threats at anyone who came within six feet of Darcy as she helped the Inquisition’s scouts turn the trebuchets against the mountains. When the avalanche started, the Inquisition’s troops roared in approval – thinking the enemy buried and slowed to the point of retreat.

            But then a fireball lit up the south trebuchet like a match.

            “Everyone to the gates,” Darcy gritted her teeth against the oncoming ache in her bones and jumped down off of the loading platform she had perched herself on for the battle. She was halfway down the path when she heard a forbidding flapping in the skies and she turned her eyes to the clouds.

            _Is that a motherfucking dragon?!_

            “No time for gawking, Boss,” Bull pulled her forward in one great hand and they sprinted for the gate.

            Cullen was beckoning everyone inside, calling out to anyone who was beyond sight range. “Move it! _Move it_!” He pulled the gate shut behind them and clenched his jaw. “I’ll get the rest to the Chantry.” He looked at Darcy with a steely mix of guilt and reverberating adrenaline. “At this point? Just make them work for it.”

            Cassandra, Varric, and Sera were dashing back and forth, pulling the last few of the Inquisition’s people from burning buildings while Darcy’s little band threw themselves back into the fight. She couldn’t be sure if it was minutes or hours that they were out there – but finally they were surging back up the path to the Chantry and the advisors were chattering anxiously amongst themselves about what to do next.

            The ghost of a boy that came in through the gates – Cole – was murmuring to Cullen about the ornery old Chancellor, who was lying against a stone pillar, bleeding in a constant stream that soaked his pure white robes to a disturbing shade of death. She caught words like “Archdemon” and “kill everyone” and her stomach rolled. “The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole was looking right at her. “He only wants the Herald.”

            And just like that, the decision was made. “If it will save these people, he can have me.” She was looking Cullen right in the eyes, daring him to challenge her. The words coursed through her like fire.

            “It won’t,” Cole’s sunken eyes drifted over the floor. “No one else matters, but he’ll crush them – kill them anyway. I don’t like him.”

            “You don’t like…” Cullen pulled at his hair in a grunt of frustration. “Herald,” he nodded for her to step away and he lowered his head solemnly. He couldn’t think of any way for this to end well. The only thing he had was to turn the remaining trebuchets to the mountain and cause one last avalanche to (hopefully) slow down what was left of the army.

            The reality of it made her heavy. “We’re overrun. To hit them, we’d bury Haven.”

            “We’re dying, but we can decide how.” His voice was dour, “Many don’t get that choice.”

            But the dying cleric had one last idea, and in the blink of an eye they were formulating a plan to get the pilgrims and Inquisition troops out of the village, to a sliver of hope for their safety. _But to get there, someone still has to turn the trebuchets._ “What about it, Cullen? Will it work?” _Please, tell me that they don’t all have to die. Please tell me that I can do something. Please, please tell me this will work._

            “Possibly, if he shows us the path” Cullen actually seemed enthusiastic about the idea for a moment. “But…what of your escape?”

            _What about it? I don’t even belong here. This isn’t my reality. This is still a dream world that I tumbled into by accident._ She didn’t answer, turning away from him so she didn’t have to see his face fall when he realized what she meant to do.

            “Perhaps you will surprise it? Find a way?” He ordered his troops down the path after Chancellor Roderick, and turned back to Darcy as the Chantry quickly emptied. He reached out, fingers around her wrist. “Find a way?” He turned her around to look at him, forcing her to look him in the eye. “Please,” he was a breath away from her. “Try to find a way.” And then he was on her, lips pressed urgently onto hers, begging her to get through it safely. Putting two months of unspoken everything into the unyielding pressure of his body against hers. When they leaned back from each other, he opened his eyes slowly and clasped his hands around her arms.“If we are to have a chance – if _you_ are to have a chance…let that thing hear you.” He pulled her against him one more time, practically lifting her off the ground, and this time she kissed him. _What the hell?_ She thought, _if you’re going to go get yourself killed, you might as well indulge yourself first._

            “Cullen,” she pushed him back and tugged at the hem of her armour. “You have to go.”

            “Maker guide you,” he whispered, and bolted toward the door.


	10. Transitions

            This time, there was absolutely no possible way she was dreaming. Not that anything that had happened was believable (because by all standards of reality, she was a experiencing a perfect example of a bad acid trip), but because no dream had ever allowed her to be in _this_ much pain.

            She was lying half-buried in a snow drift, legs bent under her at obscene angles and ribs screaming in pain. Everything was properly inside of her body, but she was morbidly certain that several thing were broken. She fumbled for the catches on her belt, trying to pry open the pocket that was jammed full of healing potions, but couldn’t get her fingers to cooperate. Lifting her hand just enough to see her fingertips peaking out of her gloves, she saw that her skin was all but blue from cold.

            _Right,_ she thought with a snarl. _Because that would be too easy._ She screwed up the threads of her fraying nerves and willed her blood to move: willed the cellular shiver to warm her enough to move. It took three times the effort and made her heave with pain, but eventually her fingers bent and flexed almost normally, and she managed to open the buckles on her belt to pull out one of the tiny vials of cherry red liqueur. This, if she had managed to pull out the right bottle, was the high-test formula. The stuff that the healers actually marked specifically for breaks and sprains. She prayed it worked as well as they promised.

            The strangest thing about taking a healing potion was actually experiencing the feeling of your body knitting itself back together. Normally, your body takes time to heal gradually, almost imperceptible to your sense – but with the potion, Darcy felt her bones lock back together with an abruptness that made her yelp and whine like a kicked dog. It spread warmth through her limbs, staving off the worst of her oncoming frostbite.

            Now able to stand, Darcy dug herself out of the snow and surveyed the cave around her. The gripping panic that she expected to feel was nowhere to be found. In its place was a tired determination: of all the things that should have killed her in the last few months; she had been beaten up, knocked down, manhandled, and dragged through the mud, but she was still in one piece. For herself, she knew it could be worse. _If I made it out of Have, they must have._ She beat the snow off of her armour and squared her shoulders. _And if they made it, I will find them._

As she put step after step between herald and the cavern, the cogs in her mind started turning. _I was ready to die for these people. I willing stayed behind to bury our camp, expecting to go down with it. Because some people were nice to me? Because a couple of men kissed me when they thought I was going to die? Because a punch of people are delusional enough to think I’m some gift sent by an ancient Jesus/Joan of Arc hybrid?_ Kicking her knees up through the icy snow piles, she pushed herself towards the faint draft down the tunnel.

            She was so overwhelmingly frustrated with the extreme failures of her plans – _Shoot myself back through the rift? No. Kill myself in a self-inflicted avalanche meant to stop a possessed army led by a demon and his pet dragon? No._ It was a long time since she had seen a therapist for her depression, but apparently she needed to do some particularly in depth soul searching on that particular issue. A person didn’t just volunteer for a suicide mission without some kind of serious mental health issue rearing its head. _And don’t even try to tell yourself that you did it for them. They don’t even know who you really are. They’d hate you in they knew you’d lied to them._

            A trip of hissing demons interrupted her self-loathing and she immediately shot her left hand at them, expecting the lavender strains of lightning to strike out, but was met with the demanding green blast of her mark – _What had he called it? An anchor?_ – as it exploded overhead and dissolved the demons into screeching slivers of nothingness. The sudden tearing open of her hand and subsequent rush of energy ripping down her arm almost sent her crumbling to the ground again, but she was too mad to go down without a fight. She jerked her hand back, reeling it in against her stomach and holding in there until the ache subsided.

            _Well, shit._ She tucked in and stepped carefully around the slimy ichor left behind by the vanquished demons. _Now it’s exploding on its own, not just when a hundred mages are backing me up._

            Darcy was completely drained, body and mind. Exhausted, broken bones still working to mend fully, hunger pains like she’d never felt before, and the dull throb of knowing (with not a trace of doubt) that she was now stuck. Everything that should have killed her, hadn’t. Everything that should have jogged her out of a dream, hadn’t. Everything that seemed like a delusion or hallucination had some kind of explanation. Sometimes the explanation was, “Because a darkspawn magister sicced its pet dragon on us,” but she was somehow beginning to accept that that _was_ an explanation.

            Every step was a massive strain. Every breath was like swallowing iciciles. _But if I made it, they made it._ That one thought propelled her through. Step after step, breath after breath: there was an entire village worth of people who _must_ be out there somewhere.

            Somewhere, Varric was telling stories to kids while Cassandra prayed with their parents. The Iron Bull and his Chargers were putting up tens for the injured pilgrims. Vivienne was monitoring the healers with Mother Giselle. Josephine and Leliana would be bent over a map and a list of allies, trying to figure out where they were and the closest friendly village to shepherd people towards. Cullen would be patrolling the lines between tents and setting his men on a careful guard rotation. Blackwall would be splitting whatever wood they could find and stoking fires, eventually going to find Dorian to conjure a magical fire or two when there wasn’t enough firewood to go around.

            _Cullen and Blackwall_. She pinched her nose as she stubbed her toe on yet another boulder hidden under two feet of snow, forcing her to redirect her course. _How the hell am I going to get myself out of that one?_ She’d had no illusions about either man feeling anything for her. They were harmless flirtations, and since she was going to fling herself into a hole in the sky, she had felt free to let herself have a little fun. Now, of course, she could add that to the list of things she would have to answer for. _Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll both just say it was the heat of the moment._ But would that be lucky? Or would it be completely dreadful? _I guess I’ll find out when I get there._

            She lost track of time, unsure if she had been walking minutes or hours or days at this point. It was well past sundown by the time and the terrain was starting to tip downhill, and for absolutely no reason she found her mind wander towards the prayers she had heard the soldiers murmuring with Cullen the morning of the assault on the Breach.

            _Blessed are they…is that how it starts? No – blessed are the. Blessed are the righteous…the star? The lantern? I’ve always been rubbish at prayer. It probably doesn’t help that I had my crisis of faith at about eight years old._ She screwed up her face, remembering her first communion dress and how she had itched through the entire church service, resulting in cherry red nail marks on her legs that lasted for the entire rest of the day, causing her foster mother no end of embarrassment.

            _Our Father, who art in Heaven,_ her mind drifted back to Catholicism. _Hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven…_ her dragging feet were catching cripplingly in the snow. _Give us this day our daily bread,_ her knees buckled, toes caught under a sheet of ice. _And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us._ She fell into the snow, burying herself up to her knees. _And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil…_ And just as everything started to black around the edges, Cullen’s voice rang out clear and crisp above the blood pounding in her ears.

            “It’s her! The Herald! She’s alive!”

 

            When she came around she was tucked into a cot, bolstered by miles of blankets and being monitored carefully by Mother Giselle. A small collection of tiny wooden figures were lined up on a bench next to the cot, beside her neatly stacked armour.

            “You have had visitors,” Mother Giselle told her, putting a hand to her forehead to test for remnants of fever.

            Darcy reached one hand out of her cocoon to inspect a figurine. “How long have I been asleep, Mother?” Her voice was hoarse and dry – underutilized during her convalescence.

            “Two days, my lady, in fits and starts.”

            “So…” Darcy turned her attention to the tiny wooden deer in her too-cold hands. It had funny little horns, twisted straight up in the air. “How long since…?”

            “Since the attack?” Mother Giselle folded her hands in her lap calmly. “Four days.”

            And here she was thinking it was yesterday. At most, two days. But no, the shivering frost that clung to her bones had been there for four whole days. “Mother?” She pulled her hands back under the blanket, taking the deer with her. “Food?”

            She smiled. “Of course,” she said, and glided silently out of the tent.

            As good as her word, a tray appeared in the tent a few minutes later, born by a particularly relieved-looking Commander. Had she been stronger, Darcy probably would have jumped at the sight of him. As it was, she had just enough energy to murmur his name. “Mother Giselle said you were awake.” He pulled the lone stool from the corner up next to her cot and laid the tray down on the edge of the bench that held her armour and tokens.

            Refusing to play the invalid, Darcy stuck her hands out of her blankets and tried to grip the edges of the cot to lift herself up to sitting, but her own bodyweight was too much for her arms to support. Cullen’s lightning fast reflexes shot his hand out to catch her before she collapsed backward, and he scooted himself closer so she could lean against him like a chair back. She groaned a little, out of pain or humiliation or both, and grudgingly sipped the broth that he offered her, tipping the mug against her lips so she wouldn’t chance spilling it if her hands decided not to work.

            _You showed your hand because you never expected to have to deal with the consequences._ She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. _And I let myself enjoy it because I thought I was leaving. I have no idea what to say to you. I don’t know if I’ll ever know what to say._ She looked down at where his free hand was holding tightly to her blanket sheath and smiled faintly. _But I’m glad you’re here._ Slowly, very slowly, she felt herself warming up. The point of contact where her should met his chest was breathing life into the rest of her body little by little. When the broth was gone she just laid her head down, finding that it fit neatly into the crook of his neck.

            Every meal went like this. She would wake up and ask the healer for something to eat, and Cullen would appear with a tray to tend to her. He held her against him until she was strong enough to stay upright on her own, and then he would sit beside her and tell her silly stories to distract her from the miserable situation they were all in.

            _You might actually be the sweetest man I’ve ever met in my life_ , she caught herself thinking, while he prattled on about some prank a recruit had played on the other Templars while he was stationed some place called Kinloch Hold. _I have no idea how a person like you can even exist: a genuinely kind, sweet man who is also a knight, who is also drop-dead gorgeous, and is actually a real person._ Because she had accepted that he was real. That they were all real. That this world was real.

            At least, the pain and cold was real, so all of the other things must be as well.

 

            When things finally happened, they happened all at once. Once she was able to start moving around camp she found herself policing arguments between the other advisors. Once she was policing, suddenly she was the sole voice of reason, and the voice that the others were differing to. Once they began differing to her, Solas came to her with an offer.

            And once Solas made his offer, they packed up camp and starting moving across the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous thank you to my lovely husband, who has been an awesome beta!


	11. A New Path

            It took almost a week for Darcy to come to grips with the fact that their new home was a castle. An actual castle. A King Arthur worthy castle, not some plastic Disney rip-off. It made her feel tiny and insignificant and powerful all at once, and had somehow lifted her back into something like happiness. _How could you possibly live in a castle and be sad?_

            There was an overwhelming amount of work to do, though. Cullen’s soldiers saw to the immediately necessary repairs, setting Master Harritt’s team to work on as many different projects as they could handle. Leliana’s scouts dug through the nooks and crannies of the fortress to find its secrets, which usually turned out to be hallways and trap doors for servants but on one occasion uncovered a secret room filled to the brim with rugs, banquet tables, and bed frames enough to fill the entire east wing. Josephine’s staff catalogued and assigned quarters to everyone from the advisors to the kitchen staff, and Mother Giselle’s little band of clerics helped the pilgrims set up a new tent village just outside of the main courtyard.

            It was a wide expanse of white, up here in their mountain perch. Everything the light touched was snowy and clear, but the air around their new home was crisp like an October morning. Plants grew in abundance and water ran through streams, small and large. There was old furniture to be disposed of, and rotted beams to be hauled away. There was a garden to plant so they could have fresh food and horses to house and feed. There were millions of things to be done, but no one seemed to mind.

            On the morning that Darcy found herself weeding and tilling in the garden with a group of women who had joined the Inquisition early on, she listened while they happily sang the Chant as they worked. The sound was soothing, giving a rhythm to their work and blotting out the ache in her arms and knees from kneeling and pulling for hours on end. Eventually she caught on to the hymnal and began to hum along quietly, knowing none of the words but taking comfort in the steady cadence.

            She wasn’t sure how long she was at it, but sometime past noon bells (the warning bells were one of the first things that the soldiers repaired, and they were being used for keeping time while the entirety of the Inquisition put their noses to the grindstone), Cassandra came to find her, bringing her a little lunch and asking if they could walk together.

            “You must know, my lady, the effect your presence has on them,” she nodded to the women in the garden, as they watched Darcy and the Seeker walk through the tangled paths of overgrown trees.

            Darcy nibbled on the heel of bread that Cassandra had brought her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

            Cassandra told her that more people were arriving every day, from every corner of Thedas. They were calling it a pilgrimage. The advisors were certain that Skyhold could withstand another assault (even one by a dragon), and the knowledge that the Elder One would come again was enough to keep everyone on their guard. “You’re decisions let us heal the sky,” Cassandra led the way towards the giant staircase that led up into Skyhold’s main hall. “Your determination brought us out of Haven.” She regarded Darcy shrewdly. “You are the creature’s rival because of what _you_ did, and we know it. All of us.”

            Leliana was standing on the landing halfway up the stairs, holding something that looked suspiciously like an enormous longsword. Darcy followed Cassandra up the stairs – two steps behind her inhumanly long stride, as always – and blanched when Leliana stepped forward, holding the sword out towards them.

            “The Inquisition requires a leader,” Cassandra went on. “The one who has already been leading it.” She paused, a small trace of something satisfied dancing across her face. “You.”

            Below them, the courtyard was filling with people. No, not filling, overflowing. Not just a few people, but what seemed (impossibly) like the entire Inquisition. _What are you all doing?_ The voice in Darcy’s head went off like a shot. _Why are you all looking at me like that? Do you seriously expect me to lead this? To lead anything? To lead all of you? Do you even know what an absolutely terrible idea that is? I couldn’t even lead a group project in high school!  
_             But there they were, every single face tipped up to her, glowing in the early afternoon sun. Smiles raised, murmurs on lips. She was still their Herald, no matter how much she disagreed with – _doubted_ – their faith in her. A tiny circle of space ringed the spot where Josephine and Cullen were standing, side by side and smiling assuredly up at her. On the far side of the crowd, leaning against one of the massive stone walls, were her friends: Dorian, Varric, and Bull all smirking knowingly. Sera giggling with glee. Vivenne and Solas trying their best not to look please. Blackwall gazing up at her like a faithful at prayer. He was shining – eyes obviously bright even from as far apart as they were. _  
_ “It’s unanimous?” Darcy couldn’t tear her face away from the crowd. How could they all possibly think so well of her? How could they all have agreed that this would be helpful – a positive decision – a step forward that could actually work? “You all have that much confidence in me?” _  
_ “All of these people have their lives because of you,” Cassandra reminded her. “They will follow.” __  
Darcy turned back, eyebrow arched in suspicion. “That wasn’t the question,” she pointed out.

Cassandra understood her hesitance – that much was clear. But, of course, she understood it to stem from some sort of pure or noble reticence, not the deeply ingrained fear that one of them might ferret out her secrets, or she might get everyone killed with a single, simple misstep. But Cassandra believed that it was right. That it was ordained. That it was meant to be.

And really, after all of the inexplicable things that had happened, Darcy couldn’t really argue. If there was such a thing as divine intervention, or fate, or destiny – it definitely had her by the leash. _  
_ “There would be no Inquisition without you,” Cassandra had a kind of gravity to her. A mooring that held her to the ground so steadily that you almost couldn’t help but lean on her. “How it will serve – how you lead – that must be yours to decide.”  
            Darcy swallowed. Her face was hot, flushed and almost sweating. The sword seemed to be challenging her. _If I do this, if I stay, I have to be all in. If I let these people trust me, I have to trust them. If I promise to lead them, to do everything I can to help them, I can’t give them anything less than all of me. I won’t just be me anymore, I’ll be a symbol. Leaders lose parts of themselves to their people – that will be me, too. History books might record this. People might tell stories about this. We might fix this entirely, or we might fail spectacularly. But we it will be me they talk about. I won, or I failed. Not them. Me._  
            She glanced up at Cassandra, face drawn in solemnity. At Leliana, eyes bright with possibility. Down at Josephine, beaming with pride. At Cullen, earnestness painted across his entire body. And a quick flick of her eyes over to Blackwall, arms crossed against his chest with his eyes trained on her, looking something like devoted.

            _Do it for them. Do it for people who took care of you when you were scared and believed in you when you were broken. Do it for a community that needs something to believe in._ And then a little voice said: _And do it for you. Because you’ve never done anything for yourself in your entire life._

            She reached, hand shaking ever so slightly, and gripped the hilt of the sword. It was miraculously light, and for a split second she thought she might have imagined the whole thing, but then she remembered about ceremonial swords – made lighter than their combat counterparts for use in formalities and political relations. She raised the blade, pointing it towards the sky, and stared uncomfortably at her reflection.

            “I’ll do it.” She said, more to herself than to the two women standing next to her. “Because the person who does must believe in the Inquisition as must as the Inquisition believes in them.” When she did look at Leliana and Cassandra, they shared a look of singular satisfaction that Darcy had never seen before. “Corypheus is a threat to the entire world,” Darcy went on. “And we are the only ones in a position to oppose him.” _Good God, if that’s not a terrifying thought, nothing is._

            “Wherever you lead us.” Cassandra – serious, business-minded Cassandra, smiled warmly and strode over to the edge of the landing. “Have our people been told?” She called.

            “They have!” Josephine called back. “And soon? The world.”

            Cassandra shifted, as though the ceremony of it were making her giddy. “Commander, will they follow?”

            Cullen swept over to the band of his troops in the middle of the crowd. “Inquisition!” His voice reverberated off the stone. “Will you follow?” The soldiers roared. Fists in the air, jumping off their feet, clapping sporadically in assent. “Will you fight?” Cullen had a singular talent for whipping his soldiers into an absolute frenzy. They cheered and stomped their feet. “Will we triumph?” The soldiers bellowed out a “yes”.

            Cullen drew his sword in one swift motion and raised in high above his head. “Your leader. Your Herald.” He was staring right up at her, smiling face perched on top of his absurd fur cloak. “Your Inquisitor!”

            She wasn’t truly sure what the appropriate thing to do was, so she raised the longsword in the air in a gesture that matched Cullen’s. And God forgive her, the crowd roared even louder.

            _This time…_ Darcy looked down at the throng at her feet. _This time, I’ll do everything I can. This time, I’ll make it count._

 

            It was hours before she could get away, hours of whirlwinds of information and paperwork that Josephine insisted could not wait another moment. When she finally managed to slip out of the great hall again, she made a beeline for the garden, hoping for a little peace and quiet. She was feeling a little burnt out, emotionally, and could use the solitude.

            Instead of solitude, she found the Warden.

            Sitting on the edge of the steps, small block of wood in one hand and knife in the other, he looked like a statue but for the fine movements of his hands. She felt her shoulders relax just a little bit, and she shoved him over a few inches so she could sit next to him on the cool stone.

            “Inquisitor,” he nodded politely, eyes glancing up for just a split second.

            You’re going to do that thing where you only call me by a title, aren’t you?” She teased, folding her legs gracelessly under her and leaning back on her hands.

            “I wouldn’t want to appear disrespectful, my lady,” he kept whittling.

            “Come on, Blackwall. It’s just you and me right now.” She tilted her head slightly to try to look him in the eye. “Are we not friends anymore, now that I have another fancy title?”

            “If you wish my friendship, my lady, it is yours. Without hesitation.”

            She laid one hand firmly on his arm and forced him to turn towards her. “Blackwall, what’s going on?”

            All of the pride, the joy, that she had seen on his face earlier was gone. If anything, he was now dour – seriousness housing itself in every crease in his face. He looked down again, tucking his whittling away in his jacket pocket and clasping his hands uncomfortably. “I will not hold you to anything you said or did in Haven,” he said finally. “Our lives are not our own. You are pledged to the Inquisition, and I have given my life to the Wardens. We cannot choose our paths for ourselves, even if we might like to.”

            _Oh, God. That’s what this is about._ She slipped her hand through his elbow and leaned her head gently on his shoulder. “Are you saying you regret the kiss?” She felt her stomach tie itself in a tight knot.

            “No, my lady,” he patted her hand a little, but slipped it off of his arm. “But we cannot let our feelings cloud our judgement.”

            _Are you kidding me?_ She was instantly furious, seething just underneath her skin. _You can’t just kiss a girl like that…_ her mind helpfully supplied a visceral reminder of exactly what the kiss had felt like, _and then expected to blow her off without at least an apology._ She snapped her eyes back at him and crossed her arms definitely. “No.”

            “I’m sorry?” Whatever he had expected her to say, that was not it.

            “I said no.” She stood on the ground next to where she had been sitting, leaning down so her face was just in front of his. “I will feel exactly what I feel, and you cannot tell me to stop.” She told him, all but waggling a finger in his face. “I absolutely refuse to think,” she narrowed her sights, forcing him to look straight at her, forcing him to understand her meaning, “that that kiss meant nothing to you.” And she strode away, absolutely forbidding herself from turning around to look at him.

            _Well, I guess that’s a thing now._ She thought, still steaming.


	12. Balance and Imbalance

            The Inquisition was gaining momentum every day. They were branching further out into Ferelden and Orlais for alliances and footholds, sending their troops and scouts all over every inch of the map. War council meetings were now a carefully planned dance of reports and orders, with Darcy leading the steps. It was still all terrifying, of course, but Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen threaded their separate needs carefully through the dance, and there were only a few early decisions which involved forcibly removing one of the two women from the hold they had on Cullen’s armour as he continuously argued that using his army was the easiest and most effective way of solving any and every problem.

            On a particularly visceral morning, Darcy had to drag Cullen out of the room by his greaves and threw him out into the hallway in front of her before slamming the war room door shut.

            “ _What_ ,” she snarled, nastier than she meant to, “is going on with you lately?”

            He crashed one metal fist into the stone wall before crumpling against it in defeat. “The dreams,” he mumbled, forehead pressed firmly against the wall. “It’s the dreams. Forgive me. I should not let it get the best of me when there is so much at stake.” He turned around slowly, admittedly a little afraid to look at her.

            He had told her about lyrium over chess games in Haven. When her nightmares were at their worst, he told her about the forced addiction Templars underwent, and how he was fighting through it since he had joined the Inquisition. She knew it made everything he did twice as difficult. She knew it weighed on him just as heavily – if not more – than any of the other challenges of being Commander. But so far, this was the worst she had ever seen it.

            “Cullen, you don’t need to push yourself so hard.”

            “Don’t I?” He flinched, rubbing at the back of his neck and pinching the bridge of his nose with his other hand. “There is far too much work to be done. I cannot afford to be the weak link in the Inquisition’s chain.”

            “You can’t possibly answer every message, write every report, lead every charge, and give every speech,” she reminded him. “You need to be taking care of yourself, or else there is very little chance that you will be able to take care of your soldiers.” She laid a hand lightly on his breastplate – it was the best she could do as a show of intimacy, since he was always covered head-to-toe in silverite. “I’m leaving in the morning, and I need to know you’re sleeping through the night. I need to be able to sift through whatever we find at Crestwood without worrying that my advisors are going to murder each other.”

            He chuffed at that – no amount of sleep or personal care would keep the three of them from disagreeing to the point of argument over some things.

            “Just, promise me you’ll take care of yourself?” She couldn’t bring herself to plead with him over it, but she could make him promise.

            “I promise.” He brought his hand down from his neck and wavered ever so slightly near her hand, but let his hand drop by his side.

            That one little gesture – that split second of hesitation – brought the tension between them to boiling. It was three weeks now since the Battle of Haven (because of course it had already been given a name), and they had said less than nothing to each other about everything that had happened between them. Cullen had thrown himself into his duties and the reconstruction efforts underway on Skyhold. He had barely set up his office – and was generally nowhere near it – always repairing stone work with a patrol of Ferelden soldiers or straightening out the endless barracks with Cassandra and the former Templars.

            “Cullen –” she pulled back immediately, almost startled. “Maybe we should…”

            “Talk about it?” He nodded. “Yes, that would probably be a…responsible thing to do.” But he looked anxious as hell at the thought. They stood and stared at each other for a second. Neither of them knew where to start. They had let it go just long enough that the heft of it was bearing down on them, and cutting through it would take a not inconsiderable effort. The silence stretched past uncomfortable, as they both shifted their weight and waited for the other one to say something.

            “Well,” Cullen forced himself to break the silence. “We’re not very good at this, are we?”

            “No,” Darcy laughed. She was beyond relieved that she hadn’t had to break the silence himself. “No, I would have to agree with that.” They were silent a few moments longer before she finally threw up her hands. “We should go back in.”

            “Of course.” Cullen nodded as she turned back to the war room door, but he reached out and grabbed her arm, just as he’d done that day in Haven. She turned up to look at him, and his face was softer, gentler, than it had been in ages. “May I – perhaps – of course you’re welcome to say no if you – that is…” he squeezed his eyes shut and she could practically hear the inner monologue he was having about needing to be better with words. “May I…write to you? While you’re away?” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “It may help…to have someone to talk to – that is to say – well, I enjoy talking to you.”

            Darcy felt a sharp pang somewhere between her heart and her stomach. Did he mean work correspondence? Did he mean a friendly note here and there to tell her something inconsequential that had happened while she was off slogging through mud? But he was looking down on her with those honey-amber eyes that made her inside feel squishy and twisted and she couldn’t think of any reason it would be a bad idea. _And if you keep looking at me like that I’ll says yes to just about anything_.

            “You don’t have to ask permission to write to me, Cullen,” she said finally, with a forced casualty to the way she shrugged her shoulders. She offered him what she hoped was a warm smile, and pulled the door open again.

 

            They met in the courtyard just before daybreak: Darcy, Varric, Dorian, and Blackwall. Selfishly, this was an incredibly important mission and she wanted her friends nearby; but since she reasoned with herself that they were three incredibly battle-ready fighters, constantly on guard. And besides, Varric would have the coeterie after her in a heartbeat if she left him behind.

            They were heading to a remote village in the north of Ferelden to meet up with Varric’s best friend – a woman named Julian Hawke – and her Grey Warden contact, to investigate the disappearance of the Wardens from the area. It was (she was told) a precarious situation and required the utmost discretion on everyone’s parts. Hawke (for no one ever called her by her first name) had told them that it would take three days’ hard ride to get to Crestwood from Skyhold, so they budgeted for just a little longer than that, figuring they would get stuck in a snowfall on their way down the Frostbacks.

            No one was awake enough to be sociable until they were halfway through the valley below, when Varric finally decided to break the silence with retellings of his unbelievable adventures with Hawke, when they had lived in a place called Kirkwall. But then, Hawke was constantly referred to as the “Champion of Kirkwall”, so Darcy’s best guess was that the tales were mostly true, forgiving Varric’s tendency towards embellishment.

            Crestwood turned out to be a rain-soaked village full of hills and miserable people who had been dragged through the dirt one too many times. They stopped to make camp after a full day of demons, darkspawn, and angry villagers, and Darcy was grateful for the rest.

            She sat quietly, prodding the stew pot that she had hung over the camp fire after Varric and Blackwall had returned with a few small rabbits. They still hadn’t found Hawke or the other Warden, and everyone was feeling relatively wretched from the unexpected conditions in the village. Dorian perched himself on the tree stump next to her and watched her stir with a note of distinct distaste.

            “You look terribly melancholy, my dear,” he observed with a single eyebrow raised. “Perhaps a worthwhile sharing of your tent might cheer you up?”

            “I appreciate the offer Dorian,” she patted his leg as patronizingly as she could, “but I thought I wasn’t your type?”

            “You know who I meant.” He leaned forward: elbows on knees.

            “I don’t want to talk about it.” She stared into the fire.

            “Of course you do,” he insisted. “All women want to talk about their lovers. It is a universal truth of feminine nature.”

            “In order for theory to be put into work, I would have to actually have a lover.”

            “Ah,” the mage nodded. “Well, that could be easily remedied, I suspect.”

            “Dorian, please don’t.” Darcy put down the long-handled spoon she had been shoving around the stew pot and turned to face him. He was eternally mischievous, hopelessly nosy, and just this side of too cocky, but he had an undeniable charm that had drawn her like a beacon. He wanted to fix things. Big things, little things, and things he would never admit to. But God forbid you ever point out his more selfless inclinations. _That would just be horrible, if he admitted that he was actually a good person._ “Whatever is going on with Blackwall, he made it clear that he doesn’t want to pursue…” she rolled her eyes at how silly it was. “…us.”

            “Ah, but you disagree,” he was wiggling his eyebrows to make her laugh as much as to make his point. “You don’t look at a man like that unless you intend to hang on to him.”

            “You’re nosing, Dorian,” she nudged his knee playfully.

            “Of course I am, Inquisitor. How else would I discover anything?”

            “Go set up our tent, Dorian.” They had agreed to bunk together so she wouldn’t have to be kept up all night by Varric’s stories or suffer the awkward tension of sleeping three feet from Blackwall.

            He flicked his wrist carelessly and a cloud of magic pulled the canvas and wood together into an instantly perfect tent. _That’s completely not fair. I will never, never be good enough with this stuff to be able to do shit like that._ She scowled at him and went back to stirring. “At least go tell the others that dinner is almost ready.” _Please, please leave me alone for a few minutes. I want just a few minutes where no one is pointing out how awkward everything is. I should have just left him at Skyhold. But of course that was out of the question – this being a mission for the Wardens. Ugh. I just won’t talk to him more than I have to. Or look at him. Yes, that’s the mature thing to do. Obviously. UGH._ She pulled the pot carefully off the fire and stuck her face over it, willing the steam to clear her head.

            “Thank the Maker you can cook,” Varric plopped down in front of the fire happily. “This would be so much worse without decent food.”

            “It’s not exactly paradise, but I suppose it’s okay.” Darcy was ladling rabbit stew into bowls, handing them to Varric one by one so he could pass them out.

            “Better than what I was eating while I was on my own,” Blackwall agreed, then abruptly realized that he had paid her a compliment and clamped his mouth shut.

            “Oh, goody, it’s going to be that kind of night,” Dorian teased looking between the Inquisitor and the Warden, which earned him a warning growl from Darcy. “Fine, fine,” he took his bowl and retreated towards their tent. “Have it your own way, stubborn girl.”

            She grabbing the hem of his robes and stared daggers, hissing under her breath. “I will sew your mouth shut in your sleep if you don’t leave it alone.”

            “Talk to him,” Dorian hissed back, and then trotted off to eat.

            The trouble was, she knew Dorian was right. Their working relationship was nearly impossible while this stalemate went on. She had managed to find a balance with Cullen – working and building a friendship based on an especially intimate beginning. If she couldn’t find that kind of balance with Blackwall, they had a long road ahead of them.

            But that didn’t mean she could screw up the courage to actually start the conversation. _And besides, in order to talk to him about whatever happened between us, I have to figure out how I feel about it. And I don’t. Not really._ She groaned, wiping the damp mist from her forehead and neck. Crestwood seemed to be soggy as a general state of being. _Maybe finding out how he feels will help me?_ She scrunched her eyes shut. _No, that’s something seventeen-year-olds do when their hormones are in charge. But – really – my hormones kind of are in charge._ She had learned to keep the electric pulses under control, but they simmered just below the surface almost all the time. _And maybe he’s just as confused as I am, which is why he pushed it away?_ She ate automatically, spoon to mouth, as her mind wandered. _You’re acting like a lovesick schoolgirl, Darce. Because he’s horribly rugged and manly and tender, or because you actually have feelings for him? It’s one thing to like his architype. It’s another to actually like him._

            His eyes were trained on the ground in front of him, bowl already pushed aside. Varric was vacating his place by the fire, off to do God knows what, and now they were left alone. _Great._ She thought cynically. _Well, no time like the present, I guess._

            It took her a few more minutes of prodding her body to move, but she finally went to sit next to the Warden on the other side of the fire.

            “I really think we should talk about this,” was the best she had come up with.

            “As my lady wishes,” he said, without even glancing at her.

            “Blackwall stop it,” she pulled on his arm until he turned his head. “You can’t freeze me out anymore. We at least have to figure out how to work together.”

            “I thought we were working together already, my lady?” She couldn’t put her finger on it, but he seemed sad. Unbearably sad. And she had a fleeting thought that maybe it was because of her.

            “We’ve barely spoken to each other, except during battle, in weeks.”

            “What would my lady like to discuss?”

            _You know damn well what I want to discuss, you stubborn asshole_. _Why do you always do this? You make me do all the talking and then tell me ‘no’ when I insist that we share anything emotional. It would serve you right if I just started making out with you for no reason. Make you the irrationally confused one instead of me._

            “Us.” Was all she decided to say.

            “You are an impossible creature, do you know that?” He had been picking at a long piece of grass and he threw it into the fire now in aggravation. “I do my damnedest to keep my head up, to do the noble thing and release you from any obligation to what happened, and you keep circling back to it.”

            “Because maybe I don’t want to be released.” _And there it is._ She shoved her hands into the backs of her knees because she didn’t know what to do with them. _You always admit things to other people before you can admit them to yourself. Gotta break that habit, Darce._

He was staring back at the fire. The wind was whipping the smoke towards them, but he didn’t flinch even when it burned so badly that his eyes started to water. “You’ve no idea how confounding you are. I’ve done everything I can to be considerate of you…of your position. I’ve kept myself as well in line as I could.” She felt his hand slide into hers, ridiculous gloves discarded so the mist in the air made their hands glide across each other. “I want to give in. Maker knows how much I wish I could.”

            “Give in?” Suddenly she had the feeling that he was talking about much more than a tipsy kiss behind the tavern.

            “I’m not what you want,” he gave her hand a small squeeze and tipped his head so he could look at her. “You deserve better than I’ll ever be able to give you.”

            “Blackwall, I’m not talking about getting married.” _Oh God. Oh God. Please tell me you’re not about to tell me you love me._

            His eyes darkened a little and he pulled her closer. “I will be whatever to you that you wish me to be, my lady.”

            She certainly hadn’t forgotten what kissing him felt like, but reality far outstripped her memory. He was a wall of warmth against the nighttime chill, guarding her from the world: hands spanning her back as they enveloped her, lips soft but insistent as she felt herself slowly giving in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband has requested a series of these stories - a displaced Warden and Champion with stories similar to Darcy's magical appearance in Thedas. Would anyone be interested in reading pieces like that?


	13. The Wardens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on here, for a relatively short chapter. Hope you like it!

            It was mid-morning when they found the cavern where Hawke was keeping watch. Her friend was called Stroud – an Orlesian man who held himself like nobility but had the tired eye of a man who had seen too much.  _Everyone here seems to have that look_. Darcy considered him, ultimately deciding that she trusted Varric and Varric trusted Hawke, and Hawke trusted Stroud, so that was that. “We will do all we can to help the Wardens, and to uncover the truth about that is happening to them,” she promised, with a conscious effort to not look over at Blackwall.

            Stroud seemed to think there was much more going on with the Wardens than just a miscommunication or focus on another mission. Their disappearance was sinister, and he was dead set on getting to the bottom of it. The idea of a false calling brought a hush over all of them. If it was false – a manipulation or a curse or an enchantment – why hadn’t Blackwall heard it? Or had he ignored it? _Yes, that sounds like Warden Stubbornness. ‘Oh, I’m supposed to go die? I’ll save the Grim Reaper the trouble of collecting me by just not going. I’m sure he has more worthwhile souls to collect anyway.’_

            The others drifted back to the mouth of the cave while Darcy worked out plans with Stroud and Hawke. Her head spun while they went over tactics, talking in circles about some ancient fortress and weaponry that Darcy only barely recognized the names of from her high school British Literature class. When Stroud finally turned away to pack his things, Hawke slung one arm around Darcy’s shoulders with a grin. "Varric said you were new to all this – but I thought he was exaggerating.”

            “Oh…uh…no,” hear ears and cheeks stained bright red. “No, he was telling the truth.”

            “You remind me of me,” Hawke was smiling, not a hint of teasing on her face.

            _Doubtful. Very doubtful. There is a whole book about all of the insane shit you’ve done.Granted, Varric wrote it, but still. There is probably nothing you can’t do._

            “I get the feeling you kind of got flung into all of this?” Hawke was searching her face.

            “A bit.” All Darcy could manage was a nod.

            “Well, you’ve already got the most important thing,” she turned to lead Darcy back through the cave. “If you have a good team, you can do anything.” She motioned to the others, a few yards ahead of them. “Ask Varric sometime. I was hopeless when I got to Kirkwall. It was only once I found my friends that anything started to make sense.”

            “Things involving Varric rarely make sense,” Darcy pointed out.

            “True,” that earned a laugh from the short, fit warrior.

            Hawke had a similar, melancholy look about her, but with a dash of something softer. Hope, maybe? Or maybe it was as simple as love? Darcy couldn’t be sure. It made sense, considering the way Varric talked about her: reverently, as though the world would never see her equal. _If Bianca hadn’t fucked him up so badly, he’d worship the ground she walked on._

“Don’t worry,” Hawke released her iron grip on Darcy’s shoulder. “They love you like hell. It didn’t take more than ten minutes at Skyhold to see that. They won’t let you down.”

 

            When they made it back to camp, there was a scout waiting for her. “Message from Skyhold, Your Worship,” he handed it to her. “Just arrived with the supply caravan.”

            With a groan, Darcy wondered if she could put off a reply for another hour, wanting dreadfully to be free of her armour and maybe manage a bath in the lake. _No, better not tempt fate. If Josephine has Cullen by the armour again, even an hour may save everyone from having to run for cover while he storms around Skyhold like a bronto._ Sure enough, Cullen’s neat, tight handwriting spelled out “Her Worship, Inquisitor Wrenfield” across the envelope. _Great. Here we go,_ she thought.

  **Darcy -**

 **Please don’t worry when you see this. I know you will, thinking we’re all about to skin each other, but we’ve been able to restrain ourselves so far.  
****I—** (a few words here were scribbled out) **I probably should feel some sort of shame or discomfort in admitting this, as your Commander, but I miss you more than I am able to say. It never seems as sunny here when you’re away.  
****Maker, that’s ghastly. But I’m leaving it in because it’s true.  
****I hope the Crestwood mission is going better than expected. I know you were apprehensive.  
****I pray for your safe return, and hope that it will be soon.**

 **~~Yours,  
~~** **~~Truly,  
~~** **You are in my thoughts, Cullen**

             Darcy felt her stomach flip and _God forgive me_ , her heart flutter just a little. _He misses me. A goddamn real-life Disney Prince misses me._ She read the note twice more before remembering that the mission was, in fact, going in a very different direction than they had hoped. An hour’s respite was out of the question. A bath probably was, too. _Yes, I miss my indoor plumbing most of all_ , she thought ruefully, strapping her pack to her mare’s saddlebag. “Pack up,” she called to the others. “No time to waste.”

            They pulled down their tents with minimal complaint (mostly Dorian bemoaning the effects that so much manual labour was doubtless having on his complexion) and were on their way within the hour.

            Varric and Dorian led the way, playing their game of grandiose storytelling. It wasn’t quite a pissing contest, but it was close. She was too far back to hear the stories, but everyone once in a while one of them would laugh so hard that it startled her out of the trance she so often fell into while they were riding. Behind her was the steady cadence of measured steps – Blackwall bringing up the read. There was something military in the way he rode, exacting and sure, and Darcy wondered briefly if he had been in some army or other when he was young. It would be calming, knowing he was just a few feet behind her, if the fact of it didn’t make her blood sing.

            _All right, Darcy. Think. One man: writing you an adorable note about much he misses you. The other…well, the other with the ability to make you…no, Darcy, don’t go down that path. You have at least another three days before you have the privacy to masturbate. Leave it alone. G_ _ood God, but your hormones really are in charge, aren’t they? First time in your life you’ve ever had two men interested in you at once and you’re following your vagina around like it has you leashed. Sort yourself out, Darce. You decided to stay, so try not to fuck up too many lives while you’re here._

            “You seem…pensive, my lady.” Blackwall had edged up next to her. “Are you alright?”

            She startled slightly, but sighed and spurred her horse to keep pace with his. “Just a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

            “Of course. I did not mean to pry.”

            “No, no,” she put out her hand to stop him from turning away. “You’re not prying. I’m just…distracted. That’s all.”

            “Not by anything unpleasant, I hope?” His face glittered with mischievous entertainment: lop-sided grin saying in no uncertain terms that he was quite proud to be a distraction. 

            She had to smile – she couldn’t help it. He looked like a cat that had gotten a whole bowl full of cream. _And all that from a couple of kisses? All right. More than a couple. Of incredibly, absolutely not-at-all chaste kisses._ “You couldn’t look more pleased with yourself if you tried,” she teased.

            “I assure you, my lady, I most certainly could.” He slipped his hand under hers and brushed a kiss against her fingertips. “But I wouldn’t presume to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

            “I’m not sure if that’s reassuring or foreboding,” she raised an eyebrow at him.

            “Whichever you please, my lady.”

            _Foreboding. Definitely foreboding._ She felt an involuntary, delicious shiver roll through her.

 

            Darcy made straight for the war room as soon as they were back at Skyhold. The more they had all talked about it on their return journey, the more immediately they felt they needed to act.

            “The Wardens are gathering at Adament,” she told the advisors as soon as the door shut behind them. “Hawke and Warden Stroud recommend an immediate, offensive strike; and I have to say I agree.” Jopsehine would gather support and resources from their allies. Leliana would send nearby scouts to monitor the situation from a safe but effective distance, sending ravens back with alarming frequency. Cullen would assign all available soldiers to combat units and get them ready to march. “How fast can we move?” Every single muscle in her body was tense. This was not something she was prepared for in any way.

            “Two days. At daybreak.” Cullen was leaning on the pommel of his sword, all confidence and swagger.

            “Two days, then,” Darcy gave a single nod and everyone dispersed. It still shocked her to no end when people listened to her like that.


	14. Think on It

            The journey to Adamant would take the better part of a fortnight, and they left no one behind. At the front of the flood of troops, the Inquisitor and her Commander rode side-by-side.

            “Do you understand what you have to do?” He asked, having just finished explaining the mechanics of the assault itself.

            “Intimately,” she assured him. He’d spent the last two days going over it with her, movement by movement.

            “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve inundated you,” he looked a little sheepish – the tips of his ears tinging rosy pink. “But I want to be sure you’re prepared. I won’t be able to go with you, once you’re inside.”

            “Cullen, if you find yourself consumed with worry every time someone tries to kill me, you’ll never relax again.” She was trying to tease, but she had just admitted out loud for the first time that the situation could very well end in her death, and she was hard-pressed to keep the dread from her eyes.

            He tipped his head to the side and suddenly looked gravely serious. “I worry every minute you are away from Skyhold.”

            “Oh…” was all she could say.

            “Forgive me. I seem to have a penchant for the dramatic when you’re about to walk into life-threatening situations.”

            “Yes, I remember that about you.” She was trying to be playful, to distract them both for just a little while, but the black cloud hanging over them was too strong. The nagging in the pit of her stomach was too intense, the voice in her head too loud. She was boiling in her own skin – the impulse to do or say something she probably shouldn’t always seeming to be stronger than her self-control. “Cullen –” The second she opened her mouth, she knew it was a bad idea. “I think I need to tell you something.” _This is literally the worst idea I’ve ever had. He doesn’t have to hear this now. Maybe not ever. Maybe I’m just exaggerating that he’s even interested. But…if he is? If he cares even a little? Maybe this will help him worry less…_

            “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.” His hands were shifting restlessly across his stallion’s reins.

            “It doesn’t change anything – you know – to me. But it might for you – and, oh Lord – ” she pushed it all out in one breath. “And since I truly, genuinely care about you and don’t want to hurt you _ever_ , you should know that you’re not…the only man I care about…” She crumbled slightly in her saddle, shoulders hunched and chin down to her chest. For the life of her she didn’t know why the whole thing made her feel guilty. _It’s not like I’m fucking one of them. It’s not like there’s ‘love’ getting bandied about. That would be ridiculous. Wouldn’t it?_

            “I see.” Cullen’s wheels were turning, she could see it in his eyes. _He’s trying to figure out who. How much has been done. How much has been said._ “May I ask?” He sounded very much like he didn’t want to know.

            “Blackwall,” she swallowed the name. He had every right to know, but she was secretly mortified at the thought of it affecting anything at Skyhold.

            “I see,” he said again. He seemed to be mulling it over. Quietly contemplating his next course of action. Carefully designing his plan of attack.

            “I understand entirely if you want nothing to do with me.” _Please, please don’t say it, though. Please don’t hate me. I have no idea how this happened._

            He looked straight ahead. “I have everything to do with you, Inquisitor. I am your Commander and I will stand by you.”

            “Cullen, you know what I meant.” _Why do they both feel compelled to constantly remind me that I’m their boss? It makes the whole thing feel dirty. And not in the fun way._

            “Do you – that is – have you…” he couldn’t decide what he wanted to know or not know. “Do you – care…for us equally?”

            Her fingers sparked uncomfortably. _If I didn’t, I’d be the world’s biggest bitch for stringing you both along._ “Yes.”

            “Well then,” when he looked over at her there was something fierce in his eyes, almost predatory. “May the best man win.”

            They were a day outside of Griffon's Wing Keep when Darcy screwed up the courage to tell Blackwall about Cullen. She had expected another awkward standstill – some kind of rift to puncture the rather pleasant bubble they had together. She hadn’t expected him to submit so quickly.

            “Aye,” he had nodded. “The Commander’s a good man. An honourable man. A far better man than I.”

            She had stared at him in complete confusion. “That’s it?”

            “I told you that I would be whatever you wished. I hold to that.” She felt the pressure of his hand on her knee, but she kept her eyes on his. “You only have to tell me what you wish of me, and you shall have it.” _There is not enough praying in the world that will help you figure this one out, Darcy Wrenfield._

            They stopped for the night at the Keep and set their tents close together to save room. While everyone was gathered around dinner, Darcy slipped away to sip at the base of the western wall, staring out into the desert sands and trying to force her mind to wander from the task at hand – to no avail. She rolled through Cullen’s plan in her mind, over and over. Though she’d never seen Adamant, she’d seen the blueprints that Leliana had shown them. The choke points had been carefully marked. The approach painstakingly detailed. She knew the task that lay ahead of her and she dreaded it.

            She ignored the rumble of her stomach and tucked her knees under her chin, pulling the edge of the sash in her hair down until it was just over her eyes. The heat and sand were invasive – they penetrated her down to her core and she thought momentarily that this might possibly be the worst place on Earth.

            Footsteps in the sand just around the corner of the wall made her jump. They were not far apart, as though the person were trying to sneak or otherwise keep themselves hidden.

            But no, they simply belonged to Varric, who was taking his usual dwarven-sized strides. “Trying to clear your head?” He asked, crossing his legs beneath himself and dropping down next to her. “Me too.”

            _A distraction. Thank goodness._ “Can I ask you something?” She leaned slightly against Varric’s shoulder and dug one hand into the hot sand aimlessly.

            “Anything, Princess.” He was staring off at the setting sun.

            _Do I ask this delicately, or do I come straight out with it?_ “Do you love Hawke?” _Straight out with it, it is._

            Varric chuckled and shook his head. “Everybody asks me that,” he rubbed her arm lazily and the small sign of affection made her feel infinitely more comfortable. “I do. Absolutely. But I’m not _in love_ with her. There’s a difference.”

            “So you love her like a sister?”

            “She’s my best friend. If I believed in soul mates, she’d be mine, hands down. You can love someone with everything you’ve got without it being romantic.”

            _Can you? That’s news…_

            “Why do you ask?” He looked up at her quizzically. He could tell she was twisted up inside with just a look – they had become that close. “Who’s on your mind?”

             She let a little laugh slip out. “It’s complicated.”

            “I have time.”

            _Alright. You asked for it._ “I’m in…well, a sort of a spot. And I’ve got so little experience with,” _God help me_ “…romance, you know? I don’t really know what I’ve gotten myself into.”

            “No better time that the breath before a battle to deal with your innermost demons,” he shifted slightly under her shoulder and they sat up to look at each other.

            “Everybody around here seems to think that,” she was still digging her hands through the sand. Perhaps it was more of a nervous gesture than she’d like to admit.

            “If you’re going to through yourself into mortal danger, it’s sometimes better to have your ducks in a row beforehand.” He was half-smiling in an attempt at reassurance.

            “I suppose,” she bobbed her head a little.

            “Come on. You look like you need to get this off your chest,” he leaned forward. “And before you start at the innocent little beginning, I know about you and the Warden.”

            She felt herself blush much deeper than she would have liked. “It’s more complicated than that.”

            “Writers love gossip,” he assured her. “Gives us our best material.

            “Don’t write about this,” she didn’t want to plead, but she would if she had to. “There’s someone else that I’m…you know, interested in.”

            “Juggling two men?” He laughed heartily. “Atta girl. I knew you had it in you.”

            “Not juggling. Definitely not juggling. More like sinking in the mire of my indecision.”

            “Who’s the competition?” Varric’s fingers were steepled under the point of his chin.

            She dropped her voice, but whether it was for privacy or out of embarrassment, she didn’t know. “Cullen.”

            “Oh, Princess,” he practically hooted in amusement. “You absolutely know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?”

            “Stop teasing and help me,” she flicked a little sand over his boot.

            “If you need me to help you make a pro- con- list, forget it. You’re never going to come to a conclusion that way. Somewhere in your gut, you know which one of them you’re actually in love with. And if, Maker forbid, you’re in love with them both – well, please promise me that you’ll give me exclusive access to that story for a very, very interesting new romance serial.”

            _‘You know which one you’re actually in love with.’ Ugh. Do I really know, though? Is it that simple? Do I actually love one of them?_

            “Varric,” she swallowed a deep breath. “I’ve never been in love. So I have absolutely no clue.”

            “Go with your gut, Princess. Think on it. Sleep on it. I hear dreams are good for helping humans figure things out.” He stood up and dusted himself off. “That’s what Hawke says, at least.”

            “Right. Sleep on it.” She shook her head a little to clear the cobwebs and leaned back against the wall of the Keep. “Thanks, Varric.”

            “It’s what I’m here for,” he shot her a winning smile. “Advice, snark, and unexpected shows of affection for those who actually deserve it.”

            “I’ll count myself lucky then, yeah?” They smiled amiably and Varric went back around the side of the wall.

            _Think on it. Sleep on it._ She stared off at the last of the sunset and shut her eyes against the purple strains streaking across the sky. _You already know_ , the voice in the back of her head told her. _You’re just afraid of hurting anyone._


	15. On the Brink

            By some merciful blessing (probably one named Josephine Montilyet), Darcy had been given her own tent at Griffin Wing Keep. She didn’t necessarily sleep well, but she felt like she slept enough – and that was a miracle in and of itself. They had three more days to ride before they were in place for the assault on Adamant, and the stress was mounting.

            She sat cross-legged in her tent, head bowed and fingers tucked into her folded knees. _This is going to be a blood bath. I’ve seen shit like this in movies. It never ends well. Most everyone dies, and whoever doesn’t won’t be the same. And you’re supposed to lead them. Like you’re some kind of fucking saint or something – like you could just jump in and save the world if they asked you to. Good luck with that. World saving NEVER ends well for the person doing it…_

            “Your Worship?” A voice at the mouth of her tent.

            She shrugged her vest over the thin tunic she was wearing and pinched her eyes shut. _Put on your big girl face, Darce._ “You can come in, Cullen.”

            “You didn’t eat last night,” he had a wineskin and a cloth full of rations. “We can’t afford to have you fainting on the battlements.”

            “No,” she agreed, motioning for him to sit down. “I don’t suppose that would be helpful.”

            He looked different without his armour. Not that she’d never seen him like this – soft white linen shirt and faded leather pants – but it always took her off guard to see him look so…normal. Like he was just a person, and not some illustrious knight of legend. He sat down next to her and laid out their breakfast, settling into silence as they ate.

            The closeness of him was distracting to the point of intoxication. He was like a magnet – drawing her in until he filled her senses and drove everything else out of her head. Within minutes, the only thing she could focus on was the rapid beating of her own heart and the feel of his arm holding tight to her side, winding around her back like a ray of wicked sunshine.

            He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, running his fingers through the ends of her hair and trying to hide his half-smile. The warm flush of magic rose inside her, heating her through from her toes up. _Good God, Darcy, not now! You have a three day ride to a battle you probably won’t survive. Now is not the time to be distracted by sex._ Every breath brought the scent of clean cloth and leather, and she heard the small voice in the back of her head add, … _Probably._

            She was planning on saying something quippy to the same effect, but he was looking down at her so sweetly, so earnestly, that she forgot everything but him.

            If you had asked her six months ago – before all of this insanity started – she would have said that hyper-masculine wasn’t really her type. And neither were military men. If you’d asked her then, she’d have said that they were stubborn or vain or too full of bravado. And that was true, based on the experiences she’d had up until then. This man – with one hand cradling the back of her head and the other solidly on her waist while he kissed the breath out of her – was breaking those preconceptions down with ease. (Of course, he _was_ stubborn, but he was probably already like that before he joined the Templars).

            “I swear, I didn’t come here for this,” he swore, leaning his forehead against hers and working to catch his breath.

            “Don’t care,” she murmured, pulling him in again. “Just don’t stop.”

            If her conscience was trying to tell her anything, the taste of him on her lips had shut it right out. She shifted slightly to try to face him and lost her balance when she found that her leg had fallen asleep beneath her while she sat. Darcy pitched backward with a yelp and a giggle, landing on her back with a small thud. The second he saw she wasn’t hurt, he was holding his sides to keep from laughing aloud.

            “Let’s not tell anyone I did that?” She was grinning sheepishly.

            “Our secret,” he promised, creeping forward until his weight was held up by his hands and knees, planted on the ground in a frame around her body. There was so much of him that he completely blocked out the sunrise, covering her with the bulk of his body. Vaguely embarrassed by the little sigh that escaped her when Cullen’s lips found the pulse at the base of her neck, she willed her eyes to stay open – as though that were some kind of guard against it all being a dream. But one long hand found the hem of her tunic and his thumbs brushed over her hip – and she was a goner.

 

            By the time they were pulling their clothes back on, the rest of the camp was packing up to move on. Cullen swooped back in for one last kiss and slipped agilely out of her tent.

            _Shit. Shit shit shit._ She tugged on her armour and shoved her bedroll into the straps that hung off the bottom of her pack. _Good job with the self-control, Darcy. Good job knowing the appropriate time and place for things. This was definitely not the appropriate time or place…_ but, truth be told, she didn’t really care. She just scrubbed mindlessly at her fingertips and trying not to giggle over the fact that she’d had to dig her fingers into the dirt to ground herself in order to prevent electrocuting them both by accident. Really, she just hoped they’d been quiet enough.

            A few minutes later she was pulling down her tent and strapping her things to her horse’s saddle. The rest of the ride would be set at a hard pace – pushing themselves across the remaining stretch of desert as fast as they reasonably could.

            At the front of the army, Darcy and Cullen were joined by Josephine and Leliana – effectively ending any possible discussion of that morning.

 

            The night before the assault, Darcy was sitting outside her tent, face upturned towards the stars. _Our Father, who art in Heaven…Are you even listening? Do you even exist here? Do you exist anywhere? Listen. I know I don’t talk to you much anymore. I’ve probably been chattier since I got here than I have been in years. But these people…these people are good. They don’t deserve to die. They don’t deserve to be thrown into something that’s going to end in bloodshed, and death, and misery for everyone involved. What do any of them gain by getting dragged through the mud in all of this?_ She squeezed her eyes shut against the oncoming tears. _If someone’s got to go, let it be me. Please God – let it be me._

            And the sudden shock of that thought: the fact that she _meant_ it? She was on her feet and heading across camp without a second thought. Her advisors had had a similar thought, it seemed, as she found them bowed together over the table in their makeshift war room as Leliana recited: “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the Peacekeepers, the Champions of the Just.”

            _Ready to make a dramatic entrance?_ “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.” Darcy had found the Chant of Light to be remarkably like the Bible in structure, and had earmarked a few passages in her memory.

            “Your Worship!” Josephine’s head came up like a whip.

            “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Darcy stopped just inside the tent. “Josie, would you mind getting Cassandra? I wanted to talk to all of you.”

            “Of course,” Josephine nodded and slipped out of the tent.

            “Is everything alright?” Cullen was at her side instantly.  

            “Just something I wanted to clear up before the morning,” she laid one hand carefully on the table and gave him a sideways glance, trying to urge him to be a little less intimate in front of Leliana.

            It wasn’t more than a few minutes before Josephine and Cassandra appeared, and Darcy took a long, deep breath. “Please let me get all of this out,” she asked them, already on the verge of tears. “We are all aware that I am not the strongest fighter. Every single one of you watched me train, so I don’t want to hear a single noise of disagreement.” She glances over at Cullen and Cassandra, but they stayed silent. “I am trying to be realistic about the outcome of this battle. After Redcliffe and Haven, we cannot afford to simply assume that some miracle will pop out of the sky to save me. We must be prepared.” _Here we go. Now or never._ “Should anything happen to me,” she saw Cullen wince subtly. “I believe that Cassandra should continue as Inquisitor.”

            The others buried their faces as they tried not to betray their shared dismay at the thought.

            “Your Worship, I do not –” Cassandra’s voice waivered.

            “I didn’t think I could do this, either,” Darcy reminded her. “There wouldn’t even be an Inquisition without you.”

            “But I am a Seeker of Truth—”

            “And I am no one’s daughter from a place no one has ever heard of.” For the life of her Darcy wasn’t sure where this certainty came from. The certainty that she would at least see them through this, if only by foresight. “I need you all to promise me this. Don’t lose focus if I –” her voice cracked and the walls came crumbling down. _Damn, and I was doing so well._ Propriety be damned, Cullen tucked his arms around her while she fought back the tears. The others, silent as the grave only nodded.

            “I will do it.” Cassandra finally said.

            When she made it back to her tent sometime later, she was tense as a bowstring and barely even registered that Cullen was still with her until he was holding back the flap of her tent.

            “Cullen, I…” the tears threatened to start all over again.

            “No.” He told her flatly. One hand tangled in hers and the other slipped around her waist. “You’re coming out of there even if I have to drag you out myself.”

            She forced the smallest ghost of a smile to cross her lips as she leaned into him. “Yes, Commander.”

            They knew they were out in the open – arms around each other and mouths pressed together – but they were lost in dread for the day to come and had forgotten to care.

            And so too was Blackwall, out at a campfire trying to forget what the dawn would bring, and trying not to notice the Inquisitor wrapped in another man’s arms.


	16. The Nightmare Come to Life

            Adamant’s façade was probably the single most impressively terrifying thing she had ever seen. Archers with flaming arrows lined the ramparts, demons rearing and thrashing behind them as Wardens on both sides clashed together in a rage of steel. She heard a single, distinct scream echo over the fighting – Hawke’s voice, clear as day: “Get the bastards!” and next to her, Varric beamed with more than a little pride.

            They were standing just behind and to the side of their army’s battering ram – Darcy, Varric, Dorian and Blackwall. They were the forward team on this one, the first line of specialty troops, as it were. Most of Cullen’s soldiers and a mass of Leliana’s scouts were already inside by way of secret tunnels and back entrances, and as the company of soldiers next to them battered down the enormous double doors, Blackwall caught the sleeve of Darcy’s robes and gave her a swift, quick kiss. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.

            Something in the pit of her stomach snarled (maybe guilt, maybe her nerves…probably guilt), and for just a split second she wished that (for once) she might have a prayer of protecting him instead. But that was why he was there. To be her shield. She’d included him the party for that express purpose. _Because I know you won’t give up on me, even if I deserve it._

            Her companions fell back as Darcy rushed up to meet Cullen at the mouth of the fortress, and he gave her one last set of instructions and encouragement. “You can do this,” he promised her, giving her hand a tight squeeze.

            The charge was unlike any other battle she’d ever been in – and that number was not insignificant anymore. The absolute flood of striking steel and silverite around her made her head spin and the demons that seemed to leak out of every crevice were sure to give her nightmares for the rest of her life. _If I even make it out of here._

            For a moment she flashed back to the dread on her advisors’ faces. To the distress painted in Cassandra’s eyes. To Cullen’s head bowed in anxiety. And then she heard a soldier’s cry from two stories above them: “For the Inquisition!”

            They pushed forward through a wall of shrieking, long-legged demons and skittered down a long flight of stairs into an open area with dozens of Inquisition troops and Wardens driving at each other fiercely. “Wardens, stand down!” Darcy heard herself screaming. “The Inquisition is here to stop Clarel, not kill Wardens. Stand down and you won’t be hurt!” The man that seemed to be the commanding officer in the group called for his troops to fall back and saluted the Inquisitor across the expanse. “Fight with my soldiers and we’ll get through this that much faster,” she advised, calling out over the din.

            There was nothing she wanted less than to have to kill Wardens. The only Warden she’d ever known was Blackwall, and after meeting him she had poured through all of Josephine’s books on the Order. They were fascinating, an alliance of varied men and women who stood together to protect Thedas from something called the Blight, which had nearly destroyed the continent no fewer than five times. They were honourable. Protectors of the innocent. Warriors for good. And Corypheus had demeaned them beyond recognition.

            _And he will pay dearly for it._

            It seemed like days before they finally found Clarel with Magister Erimond, and Darcy felt her blood boil at the sight of him. Lightning cracked free of her fingers, snaking up her staff and blasting out in deadly arcs around her. _She’ll see reason. She has to. The last thing I want to do is raze this place to the ground._

            It was Blackwall who ultimately brought the rest of the Wardens around. A reminder of their greatness and legacy – a call to clarity for the warrior and scouts amongst them who still had any of their wits about them.

            Clarel faltered. Her face puckered, and then slackened. She was lost for the confusion of it, desperately hanging on to her conviction that she’d done the right thing, but it was slipping away from her in a hurry. As soon as her head began to clear, Erimond turned down to the courtyard below, where Darcy stood flanked by Hawke and Warden Stroud – the rest of her little band fanned out around them.

            And then she heard the screech.

            The cold, grasping, ear-piercing screech that was as familiar to her awake as it was in her nightmares.

            The dragon.

            It swooped down upon them, fire clearing its path and cutting through soldiers on the ground. Darcy dove toward the wall, shoving Blackwall in front of her toward the (relative) safety of the meeting of wall and floor nearest them. Her body curled over his, desperately hoping to shield him from the flames. And when the air around them begin to cool she was off like a shot, arcing a blast of magic towards the enormous demons pouring out of the rift Erimond had left in his wake. Blackwall wavered for only a split second before diving after her and slashing through the demons and possessed Wardens that ran at her.

            The halls were a maze. Darcy, Hawke, and Stroud led the way for Varric, Dorian and Blackwall to follow, sprinting in the direction Clarel and Erimond had headed. _Please God, don’t let us be too late. Let us make it in time to help with something. I don’t really know what, but let us help. Clarel can be reasoned with. Let us get to her in time._

            On the topmost level of the fortress, she was tearing into Erimond with her staff, growling at him about how he’d ruined the Wardens for good. She was snarling, raging, and altogether looked something like what Darcy imagined “seething” anger might be if embodied.

            Darcy made to dart forward to help but Hawke caught her arm and shook her head. This was Clarel’s fight – this fight with Erimond. Or, it would have been hers alone, if the dragon hadn’t reappeared above them and shattered the outcropping they were standing on.

            “Move!” Darcy screamed, watching in horror as Warden-Commander Clarel fell out of sight.

            They turned on their heels and made for the safety of solid walls, but the stones were crumbling faster than they could move, and one by one, they started to tumble downward.

            It was desperation that made Darcy shoot her hand out below her. _It can’t end like this. It can’t._

 

            It didn’t.

            Green and black inundated her senses and she when tipped her head back to get a better look at what was forming around them she came face to face with the ground beneath her. Her fall seemed to slow down of its own accord, and she tentatively reached out a finger. As its tip hit the stone in front of her, she crumbled against it with an aching thud.

            The others – _all five of them, thank God_ – fell down around her, and hesitantly came to the agreement that they had fallen face first into the Fade. They dusted themselves off as best they could, trying to gather themselves into some semblance of readiness. Varric and Hawke each had a hand on the others’ arms, sharing a determined (if weary) moment of strength. From everything Darcy knew of Hawke, she might be the single most extraordinary woman in the entire world. She had lost her entire family to either death or sacrifice, lost her lover to a life of being on the run, and even Varric had come to stand by the side of the Inquisitor instead of following her around Thedas on whatever insane missions she was undertaking this month. How she had survived was most likely some kind of miracle.

            “Do you feel that?” Darcy turned to Dorian and shook out her arms uncomfortably. “It feels like my magic is trying to stretch out my skin.”

            “We’re _in_ the Fade, my dear,” Dorian was gaping unabashedly around them. “I can only imagine our mana feels as strangely as we do about being here.”

            “You holding up?” Blackwall was at her side, tucking her fallen hair behind her ear and searching her face for wounds.

            “Fine,” she nodded, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. “Stay on your guard.”

            They split into pairs, spreading out in a wide V to cover all sides of their group as they headed forward. Their best idea was to head towards the enormous Breach cutting through the Fade sky, to try some attempt at flinging themselves back through it. _Because that worked so well last time I tried it._

            Darcy and Blackwall took point with Hawke and Varric to their left, Stroud and Dorian to their right. They weren’t more than a few feet forward when Darcy gasped so hard that the wind nearly went out of her.

            _It’s her._

            The saint from her dream – months and months ago, a lifetime ago – hung in the air before them. The others were just as dumbstruck as Darcy, gaping up at the robed woman in blatant confusion.

            “I greet you, Warden. And you, Champion,” she was floating before them, clear as day. She read their confusion as if it were an open book. “You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive in the Fade yourselves. In truth? Proving my existence either way would require time we do not have.”

            “Really? How difficult is it to answer one question?” Hawke held her shoulders braced forward, as though she were ready to charge. “I’m human. And you are…?”

            “I am here to help you,” the saint told her, and then turned her attention to Darcy. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

            “No.” Darcy shook her head. She was completely unable to tear her eyes away.

            “This place?” The saint – the Divine – looked around them. “It is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.”

            _Oh good. That sounds like fun._

            “The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work.” The woman either genuinely did not notice Stroud prickle under the mention of it, or she was keen enough to ignore it.

            Darcy was leaning heavily on her staff as she tried to piece together the scene before her. “Can you help us get out of the Fade?” She asked.

            “That is why I found you. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it.”

            _A lot more than that happened while I was in the Fade at Haven…_

            The Divine set them on a wild goose chase, tracking up and down the hills of the Fade after glowing balls of magic that unlocked small pieces of her memory.

            With every globe, a drop of the nightmare from her camping trip came leaking back. The blanks were being filled in – possessed Wardens surrounding the floating saint high above the ground. The saint – that is, the Divine, calling out to Darcy for help. And the face, the face staring down at her in the swirl of blackness: Corypheus brandishing a great, glowing orb. And when everything seemed to be slipping out of reach, the Divine reached out and battered the orb out of his hand, and Darcy saw her own doppelganger reach for it, picking it up with the hand that now bore the mark.

            _There’s more. There has to be more._ The memories were starting to fall back into place, but there were still great, gaping holes staring at her from a six-month old dream. “Keep moving,” she told the others, stalking off down yet another path covered in heavy green mist.

            Behind her, Hawke and Stroud were snarling about fault and mind control and right and wrong. The others seemed more concerned with the nature of the Nightmare itself. The Divine (because it was easier to just call her that, rather than trying to explain why Darcy had always thought of the woman as a saint) had said that the monster in the Fade preyed on their fears and fearful memories.

            “Ah…” said a deep, rumbling voice from somewhere in the sky above them. Darcy stopped dead, trying to track the voice with her eyes. “We have a visitor,” the voice went on. “A foolish little girl comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from her shoulders.” It laughed – a sound that chilled her to her core. “Inquisitor. Dear Herald. How long did you think you could keep lying to them before everyone found out? People are dying because you lied to them, Inquisitor. People are dying while you play act at seduction. You should have thanked me, and left your fear where it lay: forgotten.”

            “I never forgot.” Darcy snarled back.

            “You think the pain will make you stronger? What fool filled your mind with such drivel? The only one who grows stronger from your fear is me.” It went on, ignoring her. “But you are a guest here in my home, so by all means, let me return what you have forgotten.”

             Someone shouted a warning about giant spiders, but Darcy reeled around and came face-to-face with a dozen of her former coworkers: business suits and coffee cups and too much makeup, rushing at her and threatening to tear her limb from limb.

            “Ah, Blackwall,” the voice laughed as they slashed through their attackers. “There is nothing like a Grey Warden. And you are _nothing_ like a Grey Warden.”

            “I’ll show you a Warden’s strength, beast.” He slammed into the nearest attacker, slicing it clean in two with his sword.

            It went after each of them in turn: taunting Varric with the intimation that he is the reason that Hawke is always in danger – harping on Dorian’s preoccupation with becoming his father – calling out Stroud’s dread of leaving the Wardens unprotected and leaderless. Until finally, it cackled with gut-wrenching glee. “Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you did really mattered? Leaving everything behind you, abandoning your life to take up a lie? And then you couldn’t even save your new home. How could you expect to strike down a God? Anders is going to die. Just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”

            “Sounds less like a nightmare and more like a lecture from your mother, eh?” Hawke nudged Darcy slightly and tried (and failed) to offer a smile before she screamed up at the sky: “Give me everything you’ve got!”

            “Of course they look like spiders,” Varric muttered, pulling a bolt out of the eye of the woman who used to sit two desks over from Darcy at work.

            “Spiders?” Darcy’s head shot up.

            “You don’t see spiders?” Varric asked, about as casually as anyone could whilst wiping grim off of a crossbow bolt.

            “No…I…” _I see the bodies of people I left behind a long time ago._ “I’m not afraid of spiders.”

            “Keep moving,” Hawke advised, waving them forward. “The demons look different to all of us. They take on the appearance of something we fear.”

            _Then mine should actually be dying versions of all of you…_ Darcy shuddered at the thought, as her mind’s eye conjured images of gnarled, possessed versions of Varric and Dorian screeching about her betrayal.

            Everything was coming back in waves. Scaling the enormous staircase with the demons scrapping up behind her. Reaching out to the Divine – then watching her fall back with a single word on her lips: “Go.”

            The saint in white robes was much more than she let on. She was a ghost, or a spirit, or a memory – a guiding light left behind to fit the broken pieces of Darcy’s memory back together again – a beacon meant to show her through yet another grim fate. “Are you a…memory of the Divine?” Every ounce of Catholicism left in Darcy’s bones was forcing her into the urge to bow before an angel, but she just leaned on her staff. “A reflection of what she was?”

            “If that is the story you wish to tell,” the figure floated up and up above them, “it is not a bad one.”

            “What we do know,” Hawke’s voice was gnarled again. “Is that the mortal Divine perished at the Temple, thanks to the Grey Wardens.”

            “As I said,” Stroud was having none of it. “The Grey Wardens responsible for that crime were under the control of Corypheus. We can discuss this further once we return to Adamant.”

            “Assuming that he Wardens and their demon army don’t destroy the Inquisition while we’re gone.” Whatever else the Wardens may have done in Hawke’s past, they seemed to be categorized as ‘enemies’ in her mind.

            “How dare you judge us?!” Stroud was squared off, ready for a fight. “ _You_ tore Kirkwall apart and started the mage rebellion!”

            “To protect innocent mages, not madmen drunk on blood magic.” Hawke was about three breaths away from driving her sword into Stroud’s side. “But you’d ignore that, because you can’t imagine a world without Wardens. Even if that’s what we need.”

            “Jesus Christ, you two! Just shut up and stop fighting!” The words flew out of Darcy’s mouth before she could think about them.

            While Stroud looked puzzled at the expletive, Hawke’s eyes grew wide with unexpected understanding. “You…” she breathed. “You just.”

            “Fight later,” Darcy insisted, suddenly terrified that Hawke seemed to actually know who Jesus Christ _was_. “Now, we need to move.”

            Waves and waves of attackers came at them – floods of people that Darcy had known at work, in college, from her childhood. Thank God the others only saw spiders or the like. With every step, every swing of a sword, every arc of magic, they drew nearer and nearer to the rift in the Fade.

            They crested the top of a landing and screeched to a halt. Down below them was the largest, deadliest, most blighted creature any of them had ever seen.

            “Does everyone else see a spider?” Dorian asked, face slack.

            Even Darcy murmured a ‘yes’. There was no mistaking that thing. It was glaring, it was hissing, and it was hungry.

            They ran at it head on. Six fighters with nothing left to lose. Because hey, if they died – they were already in the Fade). Another two dozen or more spiders, demons, and abominations attacked. One after the other, after the other. Swords arrows, shields, long arcs of magic flying in every direction. Stroud took a hit to the ribs – Dorian had one shoulder knocked in so hard that it took him an extra minute to pull himself back up to standing. Varric took a spider’s jab that had been aimed at Hawke’s leg. Blackwall dodged a venomous barb just in time to intercept the stream of ice that was snaking its way towards Darcy, freezing his feet to the rock for longer than any of them would have liked. Round after round, attack after attack, until the only thing left was the eight-story spider dripping venom like heavy rain drops.

            “If you would,” the shining beacon of the Divine’s soul appeared from the mist behind them. “Please tell Leliana, ‘I’m sorry I failed you, too.’” She never looked down, never spared a moment of hesitation – she flew forward, throwing herself into the spider with a flash of golden light that stunned their group but seemed to freeze the spider in place, if only momentarily.

            “Follow me!” Darcy managed to make her voice ring above the snarls.

            They ran for it, but the peak they needed to climb was still out of reach when the demon spider started to move again. “We need to clear a path,” Stroud told her.

            Hawke’s face creased, drawing itself taut. “Go. I’ll cover you.”

            “No,” Stroud shook his head. “You were right. The Grey Wardens caused this. A Warden must—”

            “A Warden must help them rebuild. That’s _your_ job. Corypheus is mine.” Something on Hawke’s face almost looked like she wanted to go. Like flinging herself into the grasp of some unimaginable beast might at last be a reprieve.

            When they both looked to her, Darcy’s face burned. _Of course it’s my decision. Of course I am the one to decide who lives or dies._ Her friends stood just beyond them, staring up at their three leaders, wondering what came next. _God give me strength._

            “Stroud,” she jerked her head towards the demon. “Give us time.”

            “Inquisitor,” Stroud clasped one fist to the armour above his heart. “It has been an honour.” The last thing Darcy saw before the misty green overcame her senses was Stroud’s sword slicing through the beast’s swollen belly.

            When the mist cleared again, she was on her knees on Adamant’s stone floors, managing dimly to pull the rift shut behind her. The demons were gone. The Wardens were lucid. Every single one of her friends was staring up at her. The Archdemon had flown off. The Magister was captured and under Cullen’s supervision. The Wardens had started to fight alongside the Inquisition’s troops as the regained themselves. _Did we do it?_ She was gasping for air. _Did we actually…win?_

            “Where is Stroud?” Asked a voice behind a Grey Warden helmet.

            _I let him die. I should have been the one to stay behind. But no, you can’t say that._ “Warden Stroud died striking a blow against a servant of the Blight.” She forced her voice as loud as it would go. “We will honour his sacrifice, and remember how he exemplified the ideals of the Grey Wardens. Even as Corypheus and his servants tried to destroy you all from within.”

            But with Stroud gone, the Wardens were leaderless. No ranking officers of any kind had survived. And once, just this once, Darcy knew what needed to be done without checking in with her advisors – or second guessing herself – or even looking for an affirmation from her friends.

            “Stay. Do whatever you can to help. Stroud died for the ideals of the Wardens. In War, Victory. And we are still at war. If you believe the Wardens can still help, there is a place for them at the Inquisition’s side.”

            And no sooner were the words said, than the world began to spin around her.


	17. Support

            All Darcy could really remember after the Grey Wardens agreed to join the Inquisition and the adrenaline from surviving the Fade _again_ wore off, was a set of hands holding her up. She tried to step forward but found her legs could no longer hold her weight. There was no mistaking them, really. Strong and hard, holding her as gently as they could. He linked one arm, solid as stone, around her waist and slid the other neatly under her legs to hold her up in his arms. “Hold on,” she thought she heard him say, and he started down the hundreds of stairs towards the main hall of Adamant Fortress.

            She let her eyes shut, secure in Blackwall’s arms and desperately trying to breathe through the pain in her legs and side. He slowed to a stop after going down several flights of stairs, and she heard the chaos of dozens of voices ahead of them. The one that rang out above them was unmistakably Cullen, but he stopped midsentence. He must have seen her, held against Blackwall’s chest in a bundle. _If they turn this into an argument, I’ll kill them myself,_ she thought wearily.

            “Is she…?” she heard Cullen whisper.

            “I’m okay,” she said before Blackwall could answer for her. Her voice wasn’t all that strong though, so she didn’t say anymore.

            Something that sounded like a strangled sob shook through both men – as if they hadn’t been sure she was even alive until she spoke.

            “No,” Cullen brushed her hair out of her face. “You’re not okay. But you will be.” He let his fingers linger on her forehead before looking up at the Warden. “Take her to her tent. I’ll send Solas.”

            She could feel Blackwall nod. The muscles in his chest tensed and he held her a little tighter as he walked on. “Rest, my lady,” he murmured when she started to lift her head. Darcy obeyed, too tired and in too much pain to put up any kind of fight. She was curved into him so that her nose was buried in the padding of his jacket and she forced herself to concentrate on her breathing as Blackwall walked on.

            He deposited her gingerly on her cot and started to unlace her boots when Solas came rampaging into the tent. “Out.” He told Blackwall flatly, but Darcy made a weak noise of protest.

            “I’m afraid I must insist, Inquisitor…” Solas was quietly relieved to hear that she had strength enough to make her opinions known.

            Blackwall went around to the head of her cot and knelt down. Her face was remarkably clean considering the state of the rest of her, and he tucked an unruly strand of hair out of the way of her eyes. “I won’t be gone long,” he promised.

            _Please don’t leave. I don’t care what Solas insists upon, I want you here._ Her mind was tumbling around itself, sometimes making no sense and sometimes placing all of the world’s problems into neat, logical holes. But she couldn’t keep track of it, not really. All she knew was that Blackwall leaving her tent was the last thing she wanted. He must have seen the confusion in her eyes because he leaned down far enough to touch his forehead to hers and took a long, deep breath. “I’ll be just outside. You must less Solas work.” He brushed one hard thumb over her cheek and swiftly went out the front of the tent, closing it behind himself.

            “You are either incredibly lucky to have survived being sent physically into the Fade a second time, or horribly unlucky to have been put through it at all.” He was depositing her boots in the corner of the tent and unstrapping her thick belt with care.

            “The second one,” she grumbled, winching as he pulled the belt out from under her waist.

            “Be that as it may,” he began inspecting the obvious gash in her leg. “You are also lucky. Lucky enough to have survived, anyway. Now tell me, does this hurt?” He put three fingers to her apparently uninjured leg and she let out a sobbing scream. “I thought so,” he murmured, head bowed. He went about this work silently, eventually having to cut away most of her breeches in order to properly set and dress her legs – one was badly gashed, the other broken. At last he gave her a vial from his belt and told her to drink. “It will be unpleasant, but it will help.”

            The potion tasted like lemon and dirt – a strange enough combination on its own without the burning sensation that followed it down her throat. Darcy choked, coughing fiercely, and shot Solas a dirty look.

             “I warned you,” he reminded her. When she laid back she felt dizzy – fuzzy around the edges. “You need rest,” Solas tucked her in under a blanket and put a waterskin on a stool next to her. “I will inform the Commander of your condition. I’m sure he will establish a guard schedule for your tent.”

            She tried for a weak smile, catching the sleeve of his robe in her fingertips. “Thank you, Solas,” she managed.

            “Rest, Inquisitor.” It was an order, and she closed her eyes dutifully.

            The next time she opened her eyes it was dark out, and the single lamp in the tent threw eerie shadows across Blackwall’s face. He was sitting next to her – stub of wood and knife in hand, head bowed over his work. He let out an involuntary yelp when he saw her eyes open, immediately reaching for her hand before he thought better of himself.

            She stretched her fingers out, testing her body bit by bit. Whatever Solas had done, she owed him everything. Her fingers, arm, shoulders, and neck all felt like normal. The headache she has expected was nowhere to be found. It was her stomach – queasy from pain and completely empty of food – and her mangled legs that hurt so much that tears were already pushing at her eyes. Now sure that she could use her arms without crying out in pain, she reached for Blackwall’s hand.

            “How are you feeling, my lady?” His voice was hushed and a little raspy, almost like he hadn’t used it in a while.

            “Been better,” she couldn’t quite get a good look at him. “How long have I been out?”

            “It’s not quite dawn yet. You fell asleep well before dusk yesterday evening.”

            “Half a day,” she nodded vaguely. “Did anyone…?” _I know people died. I watched some. I killed some of them myself. Our friends. Tell me about our friends. Please God, let them be okay…_

            “We’re a bit worse for the wear, but you seem to have taken the brunt of it, my lady.” He shifted his hand in hers, unsure of how to hold it. After a moment he put his work back into his jacket pocket and settled on holding her one small hand in between both of his large ones.

            “Thank God.” Darcy sank back on her cot, staring up at the top of the tent.

            “Solas asked me to have you drink this,” he took a vial out of his jacket pocket, but did not drop her hand from his grasp. “He said to tell you it wasn’t as bad as the last one.”

            “I suspect he was lying.” She took the vial and inspected it – it certainly looked the same. But she tipped it back anyway and shuddered instinctively at the deep tremor of magic she felt shoot straight to her legs. They were knitting back together, little by little.

            “I should fetch –” Blackwal began to lift himself off the stool but Darcy fixed him with a look so severe that he sat back down instantly. _Oh no you don’t_ , her eyes said.

            “Talk to me,” she insisted when he was settled again.

            “About what, my lady?” He was deliberately avoiding her eyes.

            “First of all,” she shoved her elbows underneath her back of leverage, trying to get a decent look at his face. “It’s Darcy. I thought we were past the whole ‘my lady’ thing.”

            He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think the Commander would appreciate my being too familiar.”

            _Of course it’s about Cullen. I’m lying half crippled on a cot in the middle of the bloody desert and you’re worried about pissing off the other guy that likes me._ “I would appreciate it.” She winced slightly when one of her legs moved a little too much, but she forced her torso to move a little bit more. “If you would talk to me instead of shrinking away, I would very much appreciate it.” _You want to talk about this? We’ll talk about this. No time like the present._

            “I wouldn’t presume to stand in the way of your happiness.” She could see the great sigh heave its way through Blackwall’s shoulders. “He obviously makes you happy.”

            “So do you.” _I don’t kiss people I hate._

            “You and he seem to have grown –” he cleared his throat pointedly. “Closer…of late.” It was the first time since she had woken up that he met her eyes, and he looked impenetrably, profoundly sad.

            _You, Darcy Abigail Wrenfield, are an unforgivable bitch. You’ve strung this man along even after you slept with Cullen – and for what? Because you can’t stand to give up the attention? Because you’re having too much fun? What other possible reason could you have, Darcy?_

            “I—” But what could she say to that? It was completely true. And it was her own fault she hadn’t talked to Blackwall about any of it. He had every right to be upset with her.

            “You’ve every right to do as you please. The Commander’s a good man – he’s worthy of your attention, to be sure.” She started to interrupt him but he squeezed her hand and shook his head. “I don’t envy you, having to deal with us. We’re stubborn men.”

            _Ain’t that the truth?_

            But the sinking in her stomach was truly too much. Her heart felt like it was trying to push utself backward – out of her chest, through the cot, and onto the ground below. If her throat was dry before, she could feel it turn to sandpaper now. “You sound like you’re giving up.”

            He sighed. Deep and almost a grunt. “I know when I’ve been beaten, my lady.”

            Darcy couldn’t be sure how many times she called after him, but he left her tent in a single breath and she fell asleep red from tears.

            Each time she opened her eyes there was someone different by her bed. Solas brought her another dose of potion. Dorian offered to tell long tales of his own magnificence. Varric brought her a letter:

            **Princess –  
****That’s what he called you, isn’t it? Last I heard you were healing – slowly but surely. I asked Varric to keep me updated.  
            I’m sorry I couldn’t stay to have this conversation with you myself, but I can tell you:  
****have it with Varric. Hopefully, talking to someone will help. I know it was a miracle for me to be able to get it off my chest.  
            I know how impossible it all is. I know how awful it is to be homesick for a place  
            you didn’t even think you liked. But Skyhold seems to be a good fit for you, from what I saw.  
            And you’re a much better Inquisitor than you give yourself credit for.  
****Let me be clear, here. I was born Julian Faith Hawking in Mystic, Connecticut on April 21, 1979.  
****Talk to Varric, Princess. I know how hard it is to be displaced.  
****–Hawke**

Darcy stared at the page for longer than she cared to admit. Hawke was born in Connecticut? This had happened to someone else?

            Varric knew?

            And all because she had shouted ‘Jesus Christ’ in the Fade.

            She felt the tears before they reached her cheeks, welling up in great, fierce waves before they tumbled out, shaking her body like a kayak under a waterfall. There was something horrifically relieving about the idea that she wasn’t alone. That someone else had dealt with this. That someone else had gotten torn out of reality and dropped into some kind of dreamscape. That even though she had accepted that this place was her new norm, someone else before her had had to make the same adjustment.

            “Whenever you’re ready,” Varric kicked his feet up on the edge of her cot. “Start at the beginning.”

            And she did. From the moment she’d gone to sleep the night she went through the Fade the first time, right through to the Battle of Haven, when her escape plan had failed. “I don’t know what it is with you two,” Varric shook his head. “You’re not even from here and you feel compelled to save the world.”

            “Just lucky, I guess?” Darcy had been sitting up, but the strain on her legs was getting to be too much.

            Varric helped her lie back against her pillow and put a hand on her arm. “It’s not your fault you got flung into this,” he pointed out. “I’d lie too, if I were either of you.”

            “Well, thanks for the moral support,” she would have shrugged if her body weren’t so sore.

            “Especially you,” he went on, half-ignoring her. “With Cassandra breathing down your neck and using magic for the first time – I mean, I’m assuming it was actually your first time?” She nodded weakly. “Right, Hawke said they don’t have magic where you guys are from. So really, I would have done exactly the same thing if I were you. Can’t blame you in the least.”

            “I kind of just made it up as I went along,” she admitted.

            “A true storyteller,” he agreed with a smug grin. When she didn’t laugh, he eyed her shrewdly. “I take it Curly and Hero don’t know.” As perceptive as Leliana and the Bull were, it was expected of them – they were spies, perception was their livelihood. But Varric, always underestimated, might have seen miles of pages written about all of them and no one would be the wiser.

            “No, I didn’t think to tell them in between ramming in Adamant’s front door and falling face first out of the Fade,” she bit out.

            “Yet you had time for a little pre-battle recreation?” He raised one eyebrow at her. When she blushed deep red, he laughed. “Look, I’m not judging. I’d be looking for a pretty solid romp before a fight too, if I were you.”

            “It wasn’t exactly planned,” she admitted. “It just kind of…happened. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

            “Probably ‘yes, please’.” Varric laughed, but softly.

            “I’m serious,” Darcy groaned a little in response to her body’s twitching. “I don’t even know how it happened.”

            “Well, you see, Princess, when a man and a woman love each other—”

            “Don’t do that.” Darcy snapped. _Don’t say love. Don’t use that word. I can’t handle that word right now_.

            “All right. Sorry,” Varric shrugged a sign of defeat. “But listen – if I know anything from Hawke’s trip down this road? Be careful who you’re honest with. Not everyone will be forgiving of your survival instinct.”

 

            It took them three weeks to get back to Skyhold with Darcy’s legs mended but weak, but the party did their best to keep spirits high. The Bull offered to carry her occasionally, which she always declined but always laughed about. Solas tried not to fuss when he thought she was overexerting herself, and Varric rode beside her telling her more epic tales of Hawke’s heroism.

            They were exhausted when they got home, but at least Darcy could ride for a few hours at a time without getting too tired, and that was a vast improvement.


	18. Secret Garden

            It didn’t take long for days to return back to normal. War council meetings that dragged until noon, never-ending paperwork, letters to send, reports to read. Blackwall had been avoiding her and Cullen had become incredibly bashful for no apparent reason. She used it as an excuse to bury her head in Inquisition business, and mull over what Varric had said.

            It had been too long – far too long – for her to tell everyone the truth. And yet, for all that, she hadn’t really lied about much. Where she was from, certainly, but that was pretty much it. Unfortunately where she was from meant that she had grown up _very_ differently, but she had never done anything she didn’t mean, and she’d never made a promise she didn’t intend to keep. Even in Haven when she’d promised to help close the Breach, she had meant it. She had just meant to close it behind her, not in front of her.

            About a week after she’s returned from Adamant, she woke up to a furious pounding on the door to her quarters and footsteps on the stairs. “Your Worship!” A familiar voice was calling on its way up to her. “Your Worship, wake up!”

            “What is it, Josie?” Darcy pulled her blankets up around herself and rubbed her eyes open.

            “Your Worship we must convene the war council immediately. Our invitation to the ball at Halamshiral has just arrived.” With a curt little nod she was gone again, leaving Darcy to root around her room for clean clothes.

            This was what Josephine had been waiting for all along. The ball at the Winter Palace was going to be their ticket into Orlais’ good graces, provided everything went according to plan. But that plan relied on one single person, and everyone knew it.

            The council meeting was flush with promises of formal wear and dance lessons, and Darcy felt her optimism shred at the seams. She would have to dance, schmooze, and generally politick her way through a formal ball in a country _known_ for its cutthroat tactics. An angle so second nature to them that they called it the Game.

            Josephine promised to give deportment lessons herself and Leliana assured her that the dancing would be easy enough to learn. Despite their assurances, Darcy was convinced that this was finally going to be what undid her. They would find the assassin – she knew they would – but it meant she had to charm the entire imperial court while they looked.

            An imperial court who made it their business to ferret out everyone’s secrets.

            She felt like she was suffocating in her own doubts, boiling in her insecurities. She was going to explode if she didn’t get away.

            As soon as the meeting was dismissed, she bolted for the door. She needed air. Air and sunshine. This would have been the kind of thing that drove her to a three-day camping trip with no cell phone, if she were still in Rhode Island. As it stood, they would send search parties if she were gone past dark. But that was plenty of time. _Probably_.

            She nicked a few apples, a bottle of wine, and a small basket of leftovers from last night’s dinner and she headed for the stables.

            Her mare saw her coming and shook her mane proudly. “Hey, you,” Darcy whispered, patting her on the nose. “Want to go out today?” The horse nickered happily and Darcy offered her an apple to keep her busy while being saddled. She was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t see Blackwall at the side of the barn until she was up in her saddle.

            “Going somewhere?” He asked, doing a very poor job or hiding his amusement when she jumped at the sound of his voice.

            “Yes,” she said shortly. “I need to clear my head.”

            She spurred her horse to move on, but he caught the reins and stayed them both. “Not alone?” He sounded either confused or concerned, she couldn’t tell which.

            “I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “I’m just going into the valley.”

            “Not alone,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t a question. In a flash he was back into the barn and out again, strapping shield and pack onto an enormous stallion before he threw an extra blanket through the top of his pack and strapped on his sword belt.

            “We’re not charging into battle,” she couldn’t help but tease him, overcautious as he was.

            “If you went out there alone and something happened to you…” he trailed off and shook his head. “I’d never forgive myself.” And then, a touch lighter. “And Lady Montilyet would have my head if she knew I’d let you go.”

            “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she protested as he swung up into his saddle.

            “Humour me.” He trotted off towards the bridge.

            And she followed.

 

            Halfway down the valley, Blackwall turned towards a wall of trees and directed Darcy to follow. They’d ridden in silence until now, and she’d given no indication that he was leading her anywhere in particular. Through the six-foot thick wall of branches and tree trunks, a little clearing opened on to the edge of sizeable brook. Spring flowers were springing up everywhere and bees, butterflies, and birds fluttered around happily. “Oh…” was all she managed to say, completely taken aback by the little secret garden he had brought her to.

            Blackwall, who was already tying her mare’s reins to a nearby tree, just chuckled. “You said you needed to clear your head. I thought this might help.”

            “It’s beautiful,” she felt herself smiling, without the anxious buzzing feeling that so often overwhelmed her. This place was serene – she’d have called it tranquil, if that word hadn’t come to mean something so different. Here? Here she might actually be able to relax a little.

            She paid only half attention as she got down from her horse and stretched her continually sore legs. She was unstrapping her pack when she saw Blackwall weighing down the edges of a blanket with small rocks and pulling whittling out of his own pack. Deciding against teasing him, she laid out the food she’d brought on top of the blanket and pulled the cork from the wine. “It’s not much,” she admitted. “I didn’t expect company.”

            “It’s plenty,” he assured her, and turned his attention to his hands.

            Whatever he was making – Darcy tried to be discreet in her nosiness, munching contentedly on a piece of roast she’d sandwiched into a roll and hoping she wasn’t craning her neck too obviously – it was small and intricate. She never would have believed his fingers were deft enough to coax tiny figures out of blocks of wood until she’d seen it with her own eyes.

            “It’s a soldier,” he told her. She _had_ been obvious. “I’ve been making them for the children at the keep.”

            “You’re a good man.” _There must be something more eloquent to say, but I can’t think of it. I can never seem to get my words right._

            “I’m flattered you think so,” his hands kept busy but he allowed himself to look over at her.

            _Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t make this awkward…_ But her cheeks took that as a challenge and she turned away immediately, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “You’ve come here before?” She asked, desperately hoping she sounded casual.

            “From time to time.” He was tapping his thumbnail absent mindedly against the neck of the wine bottle. “It’s nice to get away.”

            _I never seem to get the time anymore,_ she thought ruefully. _Too many meetings, too many reports._ “It’s beautiful,” she said again, deciding that unloading her annoyances on him was uncalled for.

            “Consider it a ‘thank you’, my lady.” He was still watching her, eyes following but never pressing too hard.

            “Thank you?” _What the hell for? Last time I checked you were mad at me._

            “You saved my life at Adamant. I was right in the dragon’s path, but you made sure I didn’t burn. This is small penance, I grant you, but I wanted you to know I’m grateful. I’ll not forget a thing like that.” If he had ever looked more sincere, she couldn’t remember it. His face had relaxed from its normal worry lines and he was nursing a smile, with the most peculiar softness in his eyes that – for just a bare second – she thought she might have recognized. _No. You’re overthinking_ , she told herself.

            “No ‘my life isn’t worth your attention’ self-effacement?” She teased, although the question might have been too quiet to truly be considered teasing. “No ‘I regret you wasted your time saving me’?”

            He kept his eyes trained on her: that smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and a familiar softness in his eyes. “I could never regret this life. Not with you in it.”

            _Wait. What?_

            Her wide-eyed silence brought the furrows back to his brow and he dropped his gaze back to the blanket between them. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “That was unworthy of me.”

            “You’ve got to stop that.” Normally, that was the sort of thing she thought instead of saying, but her brain and her mouth seemed to have united without her go ahead. “You’ve got yourself so wound up over right and wrong, worthy and unworthy, honourable and dishonourable – just try telling me what you mean.”

            “I could not do that.” He shook his head and stood up, making from the edge of the brook.

            Darcy followed, nearly tripping over a rock on the edge of the blanket as she hopped gracelessly to baby her newly-healed legs. “What’s so bad that you can’t tell me?” She found his wrist but he wouldn’t turn, so she went around to stand in front of him.

            “Do you really need to hear out loud that I love you?” He was barely looking at her – just at the place where her hand had perched above his wrist. “I am just as much yours as I have ever been, despite everything that’s happened. You _must_ know that.”

            “You…” the smallest breeze could have bowled her over. She was mildly sure that her mouth was hanging open, and all of the protesting, self-hating, self-sabotaging voices in her head kicked into high gear. “You love me?” _Are you sure? This is a trick, right? Varric talked you into this. Or Dorian. This sounds like a practical joke Dorian would come up with, the prat._

            The laugh that made its way out of him was almost a bark. “Surely you knew?” When all she could do was shake her head no, he laughed again – perhaps out of relief, but more likely genuine amusement. “Then you are the only one who didn’t, my lady.”

            “ _Darcy_ ,” she corrected, coming up halfway on her toes to kiss him.

            When he leaned down to meet her, his arms locked tight around her waist and he picked her up clean off of the ground, startling a yelp out of her and giving him another reason to laugh. There was a kind of unfamiliar joy bubbling up in her chest, but her mind caught up with her before it could reach the surface: _Slut._ The voices were inundating her. _Completely shameless. Are you just going to fuck your way through the entire Inquisition? Or are you content to torture the two best men you’ve ever known just because you can’t get out of your head out of your own ass long enough to actually figure out what you want? It’s been more than six months, Darcy, time to stop acting like a horny teenager. Unless that’s all you are._ Darcy smothered her own face in her hands and paced away as quickly as she could. Tears were streaming down her face without consent and her skin was itching with every rising voice in her mind.  “I’m sorry.” She muttered over and over. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

            “What is it?” Blackwall followed one step behind. “What’s wrong?”

            She pushed a laugh out from the curtain of tears, but it sounded angry – like a growl. “I…” _How do I explain this?_ “I have trouble…being happy.” She said finally. “My mind finds ways to ruin it. Ways to sabotage any attempt at joy or pleasure.”

            “Aye,” he reached out one hand, letting her choose whether or not to accept. “I can understand that.”

            She sank against his chest and felt his hands meet in the middle of her back. “Blackwall?” She turned her face up to ask him something, but the question died on her lips, replaced by another. “What is…I don’t know your first name.”

            “No,” he didn’t exactly look sad, but his face betrayed a hint of seriousness. “Wardens don’t use them.”

            “Oh…” she started, but didn’t really know what to do with that.

            “But…” he was holding her, arms wrapped tightly around her sides, chin tipped down low enough to be able to look in her eyes. “Between you and me?” He tucked her closer to his chest and kissed her cheek. “It’s Thom.”

            “Our secret, then,” she promised, tipped her chin up to steal another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're starting to burn a little bit faster. Thanks for hanging in there with me, the more serious the story gets, the harder it is for me to write. Hold on tight, everyone!


	19. On the Steps of the Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahoy!

            “Your Worship, we were worried sick.” Josephine was sitting, stiff as a board, in her chair. A scout had been waiting at the gate to usher the Inquisitor into Lady Montilyet’s office immediately open her reappearance.

            “I’m sorry, Josie. I needed to get away for a while.”

            “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself, Inquisitor, because your lessons are to begin immediately. Thankfully, Dorian has offered to teach both of you, as I suspected he has a great deal more flare for instruction than Madame de Fer.”

            “Both of us?” Darcy cocked her head.

            “The Commander also requires instruction. I trust you will both heed Dorian long enough to learn a waltz or two?”

            _A waltz. With Cullen. Dance lessons with Cullen. Lessons. Plural._ She held her eyes shut. “Of course we will, Josephine. And again, I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was taking a breather.”

            “I am only glad that Warden Blackwall had the good sense to not let you go alone.” Chastisement with a veneer of diplomacy: sometimes Josephine’s office felt distinctly like the principal’s office. “I will have a bath drawn for you. Dance lessons will began after dinner.”

            Darcy stole away to her quarters with a bowl of soup and as big of a piece of bread as she could manage, eating in front of her fire before she got into the big, brass tub in the corner of her quarters. A jar of rose petals had been emptied into the water and a bottle of soothing oil had been left on the tray beside it. _This is so much better than a shower_ , she thought with a grin, sinking under the surface of the water. She had time for a semi-long soak before she needed to be back downstairs and she meant to enjoy it.

 

            The dread didn’t set in until she was halfway down the stairs and her legs stuck sharply in protest to a particularly long step she had taken. She was exercising every day (sometimes at length) and soothing herself in hot baths, but the ache of her formerly broken leg was insistent, even after nearly a month. When she had asked Solas why her injuries had healed so well after Haven but not now, he could only say he was unsure – but he suspected it had something to do with the fact that her leg injuries had been sustained while physically in the Fade.

            _How am I supposed to ballroom dance on shaky legs?_ She’d watched enough seasons of Dancing with the Stars (alone, on her couch, with a pint of chocolate/peanut butter ice cream) to know what a workout real dancing was. Not that she was out of shape, by any means, but she hoped the lessons wouldn’t cause an accidental reopening of the gash in what was now her “good” leg.

            Dorian had flooded the room with unnecessarily ambient candlelight and swathed himself in silky purple robes and coffee-brown leathers. Beside him was a decidedly uncomfortable looking Cullen, casting longing looks at the chair in the corner that was piled high with his armour and regalia and feeling relatively naked without them. He was down to his linen shirt and breeches, shifting his weight from one foot to the other whenever Dorian gave him a new reason to feel self-conscious. Darcy had taken it upon herself to dress for the occasion (mostly because she was sick of Dorian haranguing her for her lack of fashion sense) and was particularly satisfied at the appraising sweep of both men’s eyes when she came through the entryway. A golden yellow, cotton tunic was held tight around her waist by a deep blue sash and she had to admit that suede pants were just as flattering as they were comfortable.

            “If I had known it would take dance lessons to get you to dress properly, I’d have suggested this ages ago,” Dorian purred, kissing her on each cheek.

            “What can I say? I adore humiliation.” She let the other mage lead her forward. He slipped her hand deftly into Cullen’s (who had stopped grumbling the second he saw her) and started at the beginning.

            “How is your curtsy, my dear?” Dorian considered her for a moment, not-so-discreetly enjoying Cullen’s intense discomfort at having him standing there when he so clearly would rather be alone with her.

            “Awful,” Darcy said immediately. And twenty minutes was devoted to correcting it.

            There was a traitorous lump in her throat as Dorian carefully placed their hands on each other in the appropriate places, and Cullen and Darcy stood still as stone in each other’s arms. They studiously avoided making eye contact for the first few minutes, but then found themselves bursting into fits of giggles over how ridiculous the whole thing was. It was a simple dance lesson and they were acting like blushing teenagers. _C’mon Darce, you’ve seen the man naked. Surely you can dance with him_. But with that very thought came a sharp sting of guilt, and her mind helpfully replayed Blackwall lying with her on their picnic blanket only a few hours before, holding her close in his arms and humming an old song she didn’t know quietly in her ear.

            “So how often will we be doing this?” Darcy asked, trying to hide the hiss of anxiety rising in her chest.

            “We have one week before we need to leave,” Dorian once again fixed her hand to its appropriate position on the top of Cullen’s bicep.

            “Apparently, Josephine expects us to have two dances perfect by the time we arrive,” Cullen rolled his eyes, half out of frustration and half out of a desire to make her laugh, but her lips were set in a thin line of worry.

             “So we have a week in Skyhold and then the week it takes us to get through the Dales?” _Good. Because here I thought I wasn’t under enough pressure._

            “Just so,” Dorian was finally done adjusting their hold. “I must say, my dear, while I appreciate the opportunity to tell the Commander exactly where to put his hands, I am dismayed to not be the one they are placed on.”

            “Can we get on with this, please?” Cullen’s ears turned pink, and Dorian gave a satisfied chuckle.

            The next morning brought a new rhythm to Darcy’s days. Josephine insisted on using breakfast as an excuse to teach table manners (of which Darcy found she had surprisingly few). There followed the war council, and a tutorial on Orlesian politics complete with small flashcard-like portraits of imperial politicians.

            By mid-afternoon she’d be itching for sunshine and would disappear into the gardens to pull weeds and breathe fresh air. Evenings found her listening to Dorian’s endless humming as she counted steps and tried desperately not to step on Cullen’s feet.

            The scouts and soldiers that were to be hidden amongst the servants and palaces staff left mid-week, and Darcy’s advisors and companions were saddled up and moving out a few days later.

            Cullen had procured remarkably large tents – fit for a full four people (or three, if one of the inhabitants was Bull or Madame “Personal Space is a Virtue” de Fer) and each night when camp was set, Darcy found herself subject to manners and politics pop quizzes from her tent mates: the aforementioned Madame, and Lady Montilyet.

            It got to be so bad that, the night before their scheduled arrival at the Winter Palace when Darcy found out they were starting the night in an actual inn, Darcy _begged_ Leliana for a room of her own.

            Her dear, darling, _wonderful_ spymaster smiled knowingly and promised to have the innkeeper give her the largest tub they could find and have dinner sent to her room. “Oh, bless you,” Darcy had exclaimed, giving her an enormous hug.

            The bath was a perfect reprieve, and she was comfortably swathed in a clean tunic and leggings when the knock at the door indicated dinner had arrived. In addition to the expected bowl of stew and warm bun, it arrived with a full bottle of Orlesian wine and a not insignificantly sized chocolate pastry. _Bless you, Leliana. Bless you forever and ever._ Darcy gave the eleven girl who brought the tray a few silvers from her coin purse and the girl skittered off happily.

            Content to sit quietly in her room with no lessons and no commentary, Darcy fell asleep quickly, and rose far earlier than was her usual habit. She didn’t usually see dawn, so she decided to go outside and enjoy it face-to-face, finding Blackwall out feeding the horses with the inn’s stable boys.

            “You’re up early,” he observed, quirking one eyebrow.

            “I fell asleep early, too,” she took a carrot from the basket he was holding and offered it to her mare, who nickered appreciatively.

            “Sleep well, milady?” Asked one of the boys who (thankfully) did not seem to know who she was.

            “Marvelously,” Darcy assured him, before a hint of mischievousness made her slip her hand into the crook of Blackwall’s arm and drag him away from the horses. “Tonight is going to be miserable,” she murmured, sliding her arms up his and linking them behind his shoulders. “I want to have at least one good thing to think about today.”

            “Who am I to refuse a lady?” He was smirking, but he happily plied her with kisses for as long as she liked.

 

            Absolutely no one was in more shock than Darcy when the ball was announced “a great success!” by her advisors. The empress was saved, the Grand Duchess arrested, conspirators revealed, and the Inquisitor had even managed to perform a (near) flawless Orlesian waltz under pressure.

            “We must begin demanding payment for Dorian’s instruction,” Josephine joked happily.

            “Or perhaps it was the partner?” Leliana arched her smile into a smirk in Cullen’s direction.

            “Call it a miracle,” Darcy suggested. “I seem to have enough of those under my belt.”

            “Can we leave now?” Cullen shifted uncomfortably. The four of them were huddled together under one large, arched window in the ballroom.

            “Not yet, Commander,” Josephine shook her head vehemently. “Please, go and enjoy yourselves.” And when Cullen made a doubtful noise: “Yes, even you.”

            “The Inquisitor is the star of the night,” Leliana nudged Darcy with a friendly poke. “Perhaps a dance? It would be a shame if all of Dorian’s hard work didn’t have plenty of opportunity to shine.”

            “Are you sure we shouldn’t let Cullen hide? From what Sera’s told me, no inch of him has been left un-pinched.” Darcy was trying to be kind, of course, but Josephine and Leliana burst into a fit of giggles and Cullen’s face turned a shade of red that made his neck and velvet jacket appear to blend into each other.

            “Very well, Commander,” Josephine covered her mouth with one hand to try to maintain a ladylike demeanor, but waved him off with the other. “Run away while you can. I’m sure Seeker Pentaghast will want to escape as well.”

            Cullen, suddenly free, turn on his heel and strode forcefully toward the door to the vestibule to retrieve Cassandra; and Darcy, who had no illusions about being able to leave at all, slipped out onto the terrace for air before she got accosted by yet _another_ group of grateful nobles.

            The night was crisp and cool, and before too long Darcy found herself in conversation with Morrigan, the magical advisor to Empress Celene. She seemed an interesting sort, certainly – but reminded her distinctly of the kind of witches from fairy tales: bright yellow eyes, pale skin, dark hair, and unnervingly beautiful. The kind of witch that entranced men and twisted the minds of women, leaving chaos in her wake wherever she went. But then, Orlais felt like that as well – beauty and chaos melded together as one. Morrigan was being sent to join the Inquisition as a sort of odd kind of thank you from Empress Celene, though, so Darcy supposed she would need to force herself to get over the crawling sensation under her skin every time the witch looked at her.

            “Already tired of your admirers, Inquisitor? The Orlesian court will find you terribly fickle?” Standing in the archway, tall and completely ill at ease, was Commander Cullen. Morrigan smirked and strutted back into the ballroom, and Cullen came out onto the terrace to join Darcy.

            “I thought you’d run away?” She asked when he came over to lean on the railing next to her.

            “And leave you to the mercy of the legions of nobles pawing at your boots?” He chuffed at the image. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

            “I’m too tired to put up a fight,” Darcy admitted. “I just kind of let them talk and smile politely until they go away.”

            “A sound strategy, if you ask me,” he nodded a little and smiled at her – as warm and sweet a smile as ever. After a moment’s hesitation he shuffled backward a step and offered her a hand. “Come on, Josephine was right. We wouldn’t want to let Dorian’s lessons go to waste.”

            “Are you asking me to dance?” _Disney would pay me millions for the rights to make a movie out of tonight._

            “I may never get this opportunity again,” he took a half a step forward and bowed as elegantly as he could manage. “May I have this dance, Lady Wrenfield?”

            _Oh, what the hell? Why not?_

            They stepped easily into the dance, the strains of the orchestra easily reaching them outside. And for a few moments they stayed silent, both afraid to admit they still needed to count steps to be able to get it all right.

            “You did well tonight.” Cullen finally broke the silence.

            “It wasn’t just me,” Darcy shrugged a little. “I’d never have survived any of this without all of you.”

            “We live to serve,” he agreed, with a chuckle.

            “I hope not,” she laughed, too. “I really can’t understand why any of you listen to me in the first place, let alone do what I say.”

            “Because,” Cullen held her a little closer. “You are an extraordinary woman.”

            _Oh no._ The alarm bells in her head went off with a resounding clang.

            “I shouldn’t have put this off for so long,” he was actually leading her in the dance, something that took him by surprise as much as her. “Maker knows what you must have thought after Adamant…making love to you and then not saying so much as a word about it for more than a month…”

            “Cullen—” she tried to cut him off, but he shook his head a little.

            “Let me get this out,” he insisted. “It was a selfish impulse. To want to be as close to you as possible, and the longer we went without being able to talk about it, the harder it became to even bring it up when we had a few minutes alone. And when you didn’t say anything either, I started to worry I’d overthought the whole thing.” He took an enormously deep breath and plowed through the next thought. “But the fact is, I’m completely mad about you, and have been since Haven. I hope you knew that already, but I had to actually tell you how much I love you.”

            In one single breath, Darcy could feel herself completely shatter. Everything came crashing down around her and she could feel her heartbeat hammering against her chest, desperately trying to break free. “Cullen…”

            “I mean…I know you’ve had a lot to deal with on your own and…”

            “Cullen, please.” She stepped carefully, measuredly out of his arms.

            “Oh.” He paled in the moonlight, letting his hands drop to his sides. “Oh. I see.”

            She was just short of shaking, desperately holding back tears born of the deep, deep desire to never hurt anyone – least of all someone she cared about. “I care about you. I do. You know I do. I just – ” an involuntary shudder started at her toes and ran up through her. “I don’t…love you.”

            “This wasn’t…” his voice cracked sharply. “Perhaps something you might have told me earlier? _Before_ I made an ass of myself?” It might have been the light, but Darcy thought she could see tears in his eyes.

            “It’s not as if I’ve been sitting on this for weeks now,” she was trying to be reassuring, but it occurred to her that practically nothing she said to him in this situation could actually help him feel better. “I never meant to hurt you, Cullen, you must believe that.”

            “No,” he shook his head slightly. “No, of course not. I know you well enough to know that.”

            “I’m sorry,” she managed to murmur.

            “I am, too.” He was all but wringing his hands, trying to keep his composure. “Excuse me, Inquisitor. I believe I am suddenly very tired.”

            And he strode off, back through the ballroom.

            Leaving Darcy to sob quietly over the terrace railing, hoping to God that no one else would come looking for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing heartbreak. I'm going to go drown myself in a bowl of ice cream.


	20. Come What May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if there hadn't been already, I will say: SPOILERS FOR BLACKWALL ROMANCE AHOY.

            The ride back to Skyhold was painfully silent at the front of the party. Cullen rode on the far end of the advisors, as far away from Darcy as he could politely manage and she, in turn, kept her head bowed and eyes trailing the ground in front of her mare.

            The stalemate went on for two days until Leliana finally dragged Darcy away from the rest of the group. “Trouble in paradise, Inquisitor?”

            “You might say that.” Unwilling to take her eyes off the ground, Darcy just shrugged.

            “Surely it is nothing that cannot be fixed?” Leliana had lowered her voice measurably, and was doing her best to sound sisterly.

            “I’m afraid I’m far beyond help, Leliana, but thank you.” The reality of it was still sinking in. Her head had been clearing from its fog for the better part of two weeks before Halamshiral, but the shock in realizing that had come all at once.

            “I am sorry to hear that.”

            “Really, I appreciate your concern, but…” _But what? But don’t bother because you’re just going to end of hating me for hurting Cullen? Don’t worry about trying to make me feel any better because I hate myself too much right now to be comforted._ “But I’m the one who did something wrong, so I’m not really the one who deserves consoling.”

            “I wish you would tell me what happened,” she laid one hand lightly on Darcy’s arm.

            “If I don’t tell you, will you be forced to have your people dig through my quarters until they figure it out?” She was trying to make a joke, but half of her thought it might be true.

            “Oh, my dear,” Leliana laughed at that. “I do not need a network of spies to tell me that you and the Commander have had a falling out. I only wish to help smooth things out, if I can.”

            “My current plan,” Darcy finally looked up at Leliana and saw the spymaster’s face creased with honest concern. “Is to apologize profusely until he forgives me.”

            “And what must you be forgiven for?”

            “Well,” Darcy sighed heavily. “I don’t love him.”

            “That is hardly something you decided in order to hurt him,” Leliana pointed out. “Cullen is a reasonable man, he will see that, in time.”

            “I’m afraid I waited until the most inopportune moment possible to tell him,” Darcy admitted.

            “Did you intentionally withhold the information?” Leave it to Leliana to piece together awful behavior bit by bit.

            “Of course not.”

            “Then I hardly think he can remain angry at you forever. You told him in the most timely fashion you could, given the pressures of your daily lives, and you did not intend to hurt him. Am I wrong in any of this?”

            “No,” Darcy scrunched her shoulders a little. “You’re not wrong. I just feel like an ass.”

            “Well that is certainly understandable.” Leliana admitted. “Perhaps the guilt is attached to the fact that you are not necessarily sad, on the whole?”

            _Of course you would prod for the juicy details._ “How much do you know?” Darcy asked, narrowing her eyes a little.

            “I have attempted to turn a blind eye to your romantic endeavors, Inquisitor, but my eyes and ears are everywhere. Including our camps, the tavern, and the stables.” She raised one eyebrow in amusement. “I would venture to guess, then, that your feelings are inclined more towards a particular Warden than our dear Commander.”

            Darcy did, at this point, make a solid decision to stop masking her annoyance. “So is the point of this just to make me feel worse?”

            “Not at all,” Leliana held up one hand in defeat. “But I see that you are in no mood for trifles. Forgive me. I only meant to say that you have no cause for guilt if your affections are genuinely engaged elsewhere. And Cullen is intelligent enough to recognize that, once his disappointment has waned.”

            The rest of the ride was a mimic of the first two days. Darcy and Cullen avoided all company, not just each other’s. Leliana and Josephine took turns trying to assuage their discomfort. Varric and Dorian continually attempted to trap her into conversation after dinner each night. And Blackwall? Well, he was studiously avoiding her, seeing the loosely bottled aggravation clearly outlined on the Commander’s face. Far be it from him to exacerbate the situation.

            When they arrived back at Skyhold there were several letters containing grateful promises from various Orlesian nobles (and one from the empress herself) to be answered, but Darcy left them in Josephine’s capable hands and trudged up to her quarters for the longest bath of her life.

            The guilt made her feel dirty. Like it had stained her right through to her bones. And nothing she did could shake it, because every time she thought about all of the insanity and confusion and uncertainty that had brought about that night on the terrace, it also brought a pair of deep, smoky blue eyes to the forefront of her mind.

            She sank into the water and laid back, grateful to be home again and to be able to relax for at least a few hours. The Winter Palace had been full of too many stressors, too many anxieties – and heaven knew her head was already full of enough things to make her crazy _without_ the Orlesians inspecting every move she made. There were, after all, few things more therapeutic than a bath, so she meant to enjoy this.

            Nearly an hour later she put on a clean tunic and leggings and went in search of dinner. She’d eaten little on the road and was starting to feel the effects of taking so little care of herself. Thank God for the Herald’s Rest. Her friends were nearly always there after dark – drinking and playing cards and teasing each other mercilessly. She’d had a week of self-pity, and maybe ( _maybe_ ) what she needed was a little comfort.

            The sounds of revelry hit her ears when she was still a few yards away from the door. Everyone must be celebrating Halamshiral before they got sent out on another mission, and lord knows they deserved it. Scout Harding was perched on the bench outside with Bull’s lieutenant, Krem, and they looked to be thoroughly enjoying themselves in the purple sky just after dusk had gone by.

            _Good. Somebody in this place ought to be able to find happiness without any anxiety or guilt_.

            Pushing inside, she received a great bellow from the Chargers’ direction and she waved a hand in their direction on her way to the bar. She had every intention of being social, but she desperately needed a full meal before that was a possibility.

            Cassandra and Varric, in a rare moment of companionable silence, were sitting in a corner listening to Maryden sing; and Darcy caught a brief glimpse of Sera and Cole leaning over the second floor railing to do the same. Dorian had moved himself from his corner in the library to a table by the far windows and was listening to the Chargers’ ruckus while he absently skimmed a book on Orlesian history. There was an unusual calm about the whole thing, a feeling of normalcy that she hadn’t expected. _Thank God for small favours._

            She ordered a mug of spiced, deeply alcoholic cider and a tray of whatever dinner was on hand, and told Cabot she would be upstairs and to just give a shout when it was all ready. She ambled upstairs with her mug a few minutes later and plopped herself down at a table across the railing from Sera and Cole. While she loved them dearly, she didn’t have the energy for their company tonight. If Dorian or Varric happened to come upstairs, that would be more her speed.

            Cabot came up with her tray despite her instructions, and she thanked him profusely. She knew it was because of her title that everyone was so gracious and helpful, but she preferred to hope that at least some of them genuinely enjoyed her presence. _Maybe. If only a little._

            Halfway through her meal, a familiar silhouette paused in the doorway. Blackwall cast his eyes around the room and Darcy ducked down just a little, half-heartedly hoping he wouldn’t notice her but knowing full well that he could pick her out of a crowd of a hundred if put to the task. _I don’t know if I can face you yet. I don’t know if I can say the things I want to say to you. I don’t know if I can hear the things you might want to say to me._ He disappeared towards the bar and she went back to eating, hoping he would take up his customary seat there; but a few minutes later he was climbing the stairs with two mugs. One, a pint of his usual ale – the other, a mug of steaming cider. He must have asked Cabot to get him another of whatever the Inquisitor was drinking. _Damn you for being so sweet. I can never quite figure out why you bother._

            “I hoped you’d be here,” he confessed, dropping down onto the bench across from her. “We’ve not spoken since all that bloody madness in Orlais.”

            “That’s my fault. I’ve been…well, you might say I haven’t felt well.” She tapped her fingers nervously against her mostly-finished first mug of cider. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” _I was just avoiding you, that’s all. Nothing to worry about there, right?_

            “Is everything all right?” That look of genuine concern swept over him, making his brow knit together and his shoulder hunch forward, arms therefore inching towards her on the table.

            _Do it. Just do it. Just tell him,_ the ache in her gut told her. _You’ve wanted to tell him for ages, and you know it._ She took a deep, serrated breath and downed the end of her drink. She vastly preferred the comfortable haze of alcohol if she was going to do this. “It’s not really, but also it is.” _Good start, Darce. That makes perfect sense._

            “I don’t follow,” Blackwall stayed hunched forward, verging on even more worried.

            “I have…very recently…made a decision. Or rather, come to a conclusion. Good lord, no, that’s not right either. I’ll put it this way: I figured something out.” _Words. I’ve never been any good at them._

            “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this,” Blackwall sipped at his ale and tried not to look at her.

            _Do it. Like ripping off a Band-Aid._ “No time like the present,” she mumbled to herself. Then she reached forward ever so slightly, moving the second mug away from his hand and filling the empty space with her own hand, close enough to lay just her pinky on the side of his hand. I…erm…formally…” she felt a catch in her throat and wondered why in God’s name this was so hard. “Ended things. With Cullen.”

            “Formally?” His breath came out in a halting whisper, and his eyes were shocked up to hers, searching for something that would give her away.

            “Nothing’s happened between us in ages. And then…at the Winter Palace…well, he told me he loved me.” A momentary flash of panic swept across Blackwall’s face. “And then I realized,” she went on, dropping her eyes to the table. “I realized, you know, that…well I didn’t just realize it right then, obviously, it’s been sneaking up on me for a while now…” she pushed out every doubt she could find and took a giant, desperate leap of faith, forcing her eyes up to his. “That I love _you_.”

            “Maker…” the wind was knocked out of him. He looked awestruck, and slid his fingers through hers, tangled their hands together tightly. “Are you sure?”

            “It took me a while.” She had one more confession to make tonight. She didn’t think she could handle more than that. Not right now. “I’ve never,” she groaned at the stupidity of it. “I’ve never been in love before. So I didn’t know. That is, I wasn’t sure.” She pursed her lips tightly and blinked deliberately. “I was confused. But I know now.”

            She couldn’t help but look at him now: jaw hanging slightly open, eyes wide with surprise, every muscle tight from not knowing exactly how to react. _He’s trying to figure out how to gently let you down. He didn’t mean what he’d said by the brook. He’s trying to find a way to take it back. And you’re a goddamn idiot for believing anybody could ever love you._

            Forcing the voice far, far to the back of her head (or at least as far as she could manage), she tried her best to read his face. But she was hopeless at figuring out what other people were thinking. She always had been. “Thom?” She whispered. “Please say something?”

            “Sorry,” he shook his head gruffly and let a wide grin spread across his face, eyes crinkling gently as he continued to look at her. “I just didn’t figure this would be how it happened. I figured…I thought you would choose him. It would have been the smart choice.”

            “Stop it,” she insisted. “I won’t take that kind of thing anymore. I won’t allow anyone to speak ill of,” a smile cracked her nervousness. “Of the man I love. Not even him.”

            He stood then, keeping tight hold of her hand, and slid around to her side of the table. His free hand settled on her hip and he leaned down slowly, stopping a hair’s breadth from her lips. “May I?” He asked, ever the gentleman.

            “You’ve never asked before.” Darcy felt every muscle in her body tensing in response to his proximity.

            “I feel, not unjustly, that circumstances have now changed.” His eyes were sweeping over her entire face – roving – taking her in. “For the better, of course.”

            Something about it made her feel exceptionally coy. Exceptionally feminine. Wanted. Things she had _very_ rarely ever felt in her life. It was – in point of fact – wonderful. “Thom,” she leaned her forehead against his. “You can kiss me whenever you like.”

            Words taken immediately to heart, he captured her mouth in the sweetest, gentlest kiss they had ever shared. Something inside her gasped a little, and a little shimmer of magic dusting its way across her skin. But neither of them noticed, happily absorbed in each other.

            Until a wolf whistle sounded from across the railing.

            “Way to go, Beardy!” They heard Sera shout: giving reason for everyone else in the Rest to crane their necks up towards the second floor balcony.

            “All riiiight!” Bull called, and Darcy broke from Balckwall’s kiss with an irrepressible giggle. They blushed like children and both reached for their mugs, suddenly feeling the need to hide their faces from the crowd of their friends below.

            “Nothing to see!” Darcy shouted, stifling another bout of laughter.

            Beside her, Blackwall snorted into his mug. “Not yet,” he mused.

            “What was that now?” She turned back to him sharply.

            “Oh, nothing.”

            “No, I didn’t hear you.” _Did he actually just say something suggestively? It sounded suggestive…_

            “I just meant…” he shrugged, drained the rest of his mug, and took her hand again. “Let’s get out of here?”

            She glanced down at the crowd below, then over at her cup, and then back at him. Yes, he was _definitely_ the best option of the three. She took a few more quick sips of cider and allowed herself to be swept away from the bench.

 

            “I’ve never been up here,” she observed, halting at the top of the steps that lead up to the barn’s hayloft.

            “I’m intimately aware of that, love,” he teased, tugging slightly on her hand. She followed happily, falling deliberately into his arms and laughing when he looked surprised. “Just having trouble remembering you're real,” he told her, dipping his head to brush a tiny kiss against her lips. “I’ve had this dream too many times. I can’t quite convince myself that this is real.”

            _How can you possibly be so fucking sweet?_ It made her heart swell in an unfamiliar (but not at all unwelcome) way. ‘Thom…” she started, but he shook his head.

            “Listen,” he took both of her hands in his. “Before whatever is about to happen…happens. You need to know. I’m not worthy of you.”

            “I thought we talked about this earlier,” she teased, leaning up to kiss him again.

            But he pulled his head back slightly. “No, I mean it. I love you. Maker _knows_ I love you. But you must realize: there’s no future for us…with me as a Warden.”

            _He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want you here anymore. Just leave. Just go and be humiliated somewhere else. You should have known better than to think he’d want you._ The fiercest of the voices reared its ugly head. _How could anyone possibly love **you**?_

And then she was breaking out of his arms, running for the steps.

            “Darcy!” He jumped forward after her, years of practice making him fast and decidedly more limber than a man of his age would usually be. He caught her at the bottom of the stairs, just before she reached the doors. She was in tears, he saw that now, absolutely beside herself from what he had said. Maker’s breath, he was a _stupid_ man. Hadn’t she said how insecure she was? How much she struggled just to feel happy? “I’m sorry,” he took one, two steps toward her. “I didn’t mean…” he shook his head. “That is to say, I was only trying to make sure you knew what you were doing. Get involved with an old man like me.”

            “I’ll go, if you want me to.” She couldn’t stop crying. _It’s what he wants. Of course he wants you to go. Stupid girl._

            “No,” he closed the space between them and caught her up in his arms, letting her sink against his chest. “That’s the last thing I want.”

            When she finally stopped shaking, he brought her over to the fireplace and rekindled the flames. He didn’t have much in the way of refreshment in the barn but he had a bit of a bottle of wine left, which they shared between them. “I truly didn’t mean to scare you.” He said, after a long silence. “I just wanted the decision to be yours. To not make you feel pressured at all.”

            “You’ve never made me feel pressured,” she assured him. “If anything, I should be apologizing to you. Making a scene like that after months of crazy indecision? I can’t imagine why you held on for so long.” She didn’t mean to be so blunt. _Maybe it’s the wine? Or the cider’s finally catching up with me._

            “I’ve been in love with you for a very long time.” He stared into the fire, but held her tight to his side. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, I’d wager.”

            The look she gave him was breathless. And followed immediately by an equally breathless kiss.

            After which he swept her up, and carried her up the stairs.

           

            She didn’t open her eyes when she woke up, but took a moment to savor the feeling of warm furs draped over her and the heat of the night before still tucked in around her. _He loves me._ Her mind rolled the words over and over. _He actually loves me. And I love him_.

            When she allowed herself to open her eyes and reach for him, he wasn’t there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.  
> I need more ice cream.  
> (Hangs her head in writerly shame.)  
> But it had to be done.


	21. Fresh Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from Blackwall's POV, with plenty more angst for all.

            It was possible he had never hated himself more than he did right now. All the things he had ever done in his life – or not done – or caused to happen? They all paled in comparison to this.

            Nothing was as cowardly as slipping out from under the furs in the dead of night. Hearing her stir ever so slightly, seeing the smile pull across her face as she slept, and still creeping down the creaking stairs. He had dressed in the dark, knowing by instinct where to reach to find his things. And nothing ever hurt so badly as the quickly made decision to leave a note on his work table:

            **There is little I can say that will ease this pain. Just know that while it hurt to leave, it would’ve hurt more if I stayed. Above all, know that you did nothing wrong. I am deeply sorry. More than I can say.**

            _Bloody coward_ , he berated himself, throwing the hood of a large cloak down over his head to obscure his face. The cold wind was whipping at his face as he rode down the side of the mountain, down past the valley and further out into the night. _Try to convince yourself you’re sparing her feelings by leaving now, but if you’d wanted to spare them at all you’d have let Cullen have her. You’d have backed down and kept your ruddy selfishness in check._

_But you couldn’t, could you? Greedy bastard. You couldn’t do what was right then, and you couldn’t do it now. Swim in your guilt now, man, it will be the last thing you ever feel. Guilty and broken. Exactly what you deserve for leaving her like that._

            The very thought of it almost brought him to tears. In a few short hours she would be waking – the dawn would come streaming in through the loft window and rouse her – and she would stretch out like a cat (the way she had with his arms around her just before she fell asleep) and she would reach for him. But his place beside her would be empty, and his things would be gone along with him. Maybe she would convince herself that he’d gone to get them breakfast. Maybe she would wait (and wait, and wait) for him to return. It might take an hour before she began to truly worry. And then she would dress and go downstairs, and find his note. _That note. Maker take me, I don’t know what made me leave it._

            At that point, she would go straight to Varric. And probably Dorian, as well. She would sob herself into hysterics, wondering what she had down to push him away. _Cowardly bastard. You know exactly what this will do to her and you did it anyway._

            He rode hard and fast, trying to push the image of her tears out of his head. If he only stopped to sleep and eat, he could make it just in time for the execution. He could make it just in time to stop the whole damned thing. To take his rightful place on the gallows. _Where you damn well belong, you sorry weakling._

            Maybe she would even go to Cullen for comfort. In time. Probably not right away. If he had forgiven her for her misjudgments, he could be the one to assuage her fears and cradle her against – _No. Best not to think about that._ He felt himself tensing, a primal sort of growl building up in his throat at the very idea of it. _Void take me, I love her, and I left her. But at least I can die with something like honour. It’s the closest I’ll ever be able to come to being the man she thinks I am._

            A hard ride through the Dales would put him at the banks of the Waking Sea in just under a week. From there it was a day’s forge across the water, and a few hours by whatever coach he could hire. That would put him in the heart of Val Royeaux the day before Mornay took to the gallows. He’d sell his stallion at port and use whatever money he got to buy passage across the Sea.

            With any luck, Sister Leliana and Ambassador Montilyet would prevent her from looking for him. The Sister would assure her that she would send scouts – and maybe she even would. But, Maker willing, they would be at least a day behind him and he’d be able to go through with the thing before they caught up with him. The Lady Ambassador would keep her busy with reports and social necessities to attempt to distract her. And Cullen, if he could bring himself to do it, would offer her the comfort she truly needed.

            Every time the thought came to him, he hated himself that much more.

            The days dragged on, a constant stream of trees and villages passing by as he sped by. Night after night spent sleeping on cold ground because he _deserved_ it. Meals of hard tack and jerky washed down with water from a spring if he could find one. He was determined that his body should feel as broken as his spirit.

            When a night came that his horse was suffering too much under the damp spring cold he relented, buying the steed a place in the nearest village inn’s stable for the night. He bought a bottle of cheap whiskey from the barkeep inside the inn and sat in the straw with his horse for the night. Drunk and miserable was how he was going to do this, if he was going to allow himself to keep warm for a night. And if he was going to be miserable, he was going to let his mind wander.

            _How many days has it been? Long enough for Sister Leliana to send people after me, if she has any intention to. But Darcy would make her. Sweet, gentle girl with a heart as big as the world – she’d be worried sick. Heartbroken and still worried about him. That sounded like her. All the while worrying about what she’d done wrong – trying to work it out, going through every step of everything that had happened, searching for a clue. But there wasn’t one. Not that she would be able to find. Because she hadn’t_ done _anything wrong. And she would never know it._

If the scouts had caught scent of his trail, they might have sent someone from a camp in the Dales and they’d find him that much faster. He had half a mind to shave his beard to give them a harder time of finding him, but a tiny voice in the back of his head stopped him. _She had said she liked it. She said it tickled, and she liked that._

            Maker only knew what kind of a state she was in now that he’d been gone a few days. She’d be plastered to Varric’s side, listening to him tell her stories that would sweep her away from all of the hurt he had drowned her in. She’d be sitting alone in the Rest – no, that wasn’t right, Dorian wouldn’t let her spend one single moment alone if he could help it – she’d sit with him in the Rest and they would drink together and drinking would dissolve her into another wave of sadness. She wore her heart on her sleeve when she drank. Made no bones about how she felt about anything.

            _Wake up. Shake the cold out of your bones, old man. One more day to the coast._ Badly hungover suited his mood well. Dourer than ever, he saddled up and rode out as dawn crested the sky. Maker willing, he’d find the coast before dusk, and be able to hire a boat quickly.

            _She’s better off_ , he told himself over and over. _She’ll see that. She’s smart, she’ll see it in time._ Maker, but he missed her. Warm, soft skin, long arms and shapely legs, the latter carrying the deep scars of Adamant’s devastation. The silkiest hair he’d ever felt, spilling out across his pillow as her breath came easy and even.

            Rain pelted down on him as he neared the coast, soaking his cloak and sticking his hair to his face and neck. He shivered in spite himself and gritted his teeth against the pounding headache that pulsed mercilessly from ear to ear. The coast was starting to come into sight, out in the distance, and if any of the ferrymen or fishermen were willing to take a passenger, he’d better inquire soon so they could be off as soon as the storm abated.

            As it turned out, no one was willing to leave port until the next morning at the earliest. The fishermen weren’t willing to work in vain and the ferrymen were wary of damage to their boats.

            He paid his fare to a ferryman for first thing in the morning, giving the man an extra sovereign with instructions to wake him as early as he liked. He sold his steed to the innkeeper near the docks in exchange for a bed and a bath. _She’d never let you stand up in front of anyone, for any reason, looking like you do._ He almost laughed at the thought. She truly would never let him out of her sight looking like the ragged shell of a man he now resembled. _If you’re going to face the Maker, face him the way she would want you to._ And so he bathed himself and stared at the ceiling for the better part of the night, unable to sleep for thoughts of the day to come. At least he hadn’t seen hide or hair of any scouts. That was a small mercy. _Anything to spare her the horror of finding out what I am._

           

            He had forgotten what a spectacle executions for treason were. He couldn’t begin to count the number of people gathered beneath the gallows, all to see one single, innocent man hanged. He had barely made it in time – creeping into the shadows of the bushes nearby because he was a _bloody coward who couldn’t even face the people he’d wronged now, when they most deserved to see him punished._

            “Cyril Mornay. For your crimes against the Empire of Orlais…” the bailiff on the gallows read from a scroll much longer than necessary. Every single charge was listed there – it must be. Every death, every last breath of men and women and children listed there on a single scroll for his humiliation. He vaguely registered the bailiff reading out the names of the entire Callier family. _Maker, but you truly are a worthless coward…_ his mind spat out.

            “…Do you have anything to say in your defense?” The bailiff finally asked.

            _If you have any last thought, let it be of her. Add her to your list of the wronged. It would have been kinder if you’d killed her. If there truly was a Maker, he would have spared her from ever crossing your path._

_Go die, old man. It’s all you deserve._

            Mornay was brought to his feet, the noose brought before him.

            _Go,_ he told his feet.

            “Stop!” He managed to make his voice work at the very last moment. Ascending the steps of the gallows made his stomach churn. The bailiff announcing him as a Grey Warden only made it worse. “This man is innocent of the crimes before him.” Something possessed him to look out into the crowd, to address his guilt to them, and not the hangman. “Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier.”

            And there she was.

            Flanked by Varric, Dorian, and the Iron Bull, with a gasp on her face that made his heart break all over again. _Maker’s breath woman, why won’t you just give up on me?_

            His breath hitched, caught in a strangle at the base of his throat. But if he didn’t finish this, Mornay would hang. So he pushed past it: “He should not die for that mistake.”

            The bailiff all but scoffed at him. “Then find me the man who gave the order,” he challenged.

            _Maker, why did she have to come? Why did she feel so compelled to search him out? He’d never wanted her to know this part of him. He’d never wanted her to feel the shame of knowing this._

            From somewhere out in the crowd, he thought he heard Varric. “Oh…shit.”

            And then her voice followed – higher and angrier and more scared than he’d ever heard her, calling out his name: “Blackwall!” A name that was never – had never – been his.

            This, then, was his confession to _her_ and not the rest of them. “No,” he shook his head, making sure he found her eyes in the thick. “I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall. Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years.” He saw the confusion register on her face. The absolute terror and bewilderment that came with not knowing why her lover was standing on a gallows bargaining for a man’s life. “I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am.” Her eyes blew wide, but he made himself turn to Mornay. “It’s over. I’m done hiding.”

            And the disgust that registered on the old soldier’s face was a well-deserved slap in the face. “You? After all this time…”

            _Look at her. Turn back and look at her. Tell her what you are._

            “I gave the order.” The words rumbled around inside him like boulders. “The crime is mine. I…am Thom Rainier.”

            He didn’t have to be looking at her to know that the desperate sob that rang out from the center of the crowd as the executioner led him away, was hers.  

 

            _Jail cell. Why am I in a jail cell? Why can’t they just hang me and be done with it? I’ve already admitted who I am…_

            The door at the end of the hallway creaked open and shut, but it was just far enough away for his sightlines to be blocked. The click of tidy leather boots ricocheted off the walls and he hung his head between his legs like a wet dog. _A dog is exactly what you are_ , he reminded himself. She stood there, just looking at him, for more than a few minutes. He had no idea where to start, so he just jumped in: “I didn’t take Blackwall’s life. I traded his death. He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush. Darkspawn. He was killed. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man, the man _he_ was, wouldn’t have let another die in his place.”

            He heard her suck in a breath as she stepped towards him, lifting one hand up to touch the iron bars between them, but ultimately deciding against it. “Why did you…” she tilted her head in the little way she did when she couldn’t pick out the words she wanted. “You told me your real first name. Why?”

            “Because I am a selfish man who wanted nothing more than to hear the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, say his name.” _You sound even more pathetic when you admit it out loud._

            “Oh…” the reply she made when she was working something out. He’d spent months memorizing her little quirks. Watching fondly as she quirked a smile or tucked her knees up underneath her or fluttered her fingers out during an argument, trying to use them to illustrate a point that she couldn’t quite articulate.

            To his enormous surprise, she sat down in front of the bars and crossed her legs, looking up at him with her hands laced together under her chin and a serious expression on her face. “Thom…” she started, and suddenly his name tumbling from her lips was no longer a prayer. “I need to tell you something.”

            _Andraste’s flaming pyre, what could you possibly have to tell me, after all this?_ He bobbed his head towards the door reluctantly.

            “No, no one will interrupt us,” she tapped her chin a little. “Cullen’s barred the door. He’s under orders – only I go in and only I come out.”

            “So…you and the Commander are speaking, again?” The question almost tore in heart in two.

            “Yes. But not like that. He was awfully keen on proving to me what a cad you are, though. He’s still sore with me over the Winter Palace. And he has every right to be.” She glanced over at the door and then turned back, settling her eyes on him intently. “But that’s not what I need to tell you.”

            “I am your captive audience, my lady.” A bit of gallows humour seemed appropriate to the situation.

            “Stop that,” she snapped, and he bowed his head in resignation. “Now listen to me. This is going to take a while to explain, and I don’t want you interrupting because I’ll completely lose my train of thought and this is important.”       

            “Whatever you say,” he agreed.

            She allowed herself a deep groan and rubbed her hands anxiously over her face, finally settling her forearms on her knees and shutting her eyes for a moment. “I am not from Ferelden,” she began. “I was born in a city called Providence, in a place called Rhode Island. Where I come from, there is no such thing as Thedas. Thedas doesn’t exist. Andraste never lived and no one has heard her name. There are no elves, no dwarves, and there is no magic.”

            _Maker’s balls…_ his mind snapped to attention. _What in the Void is she talking about?_

            “Eight months ago, I had a nightmare. In the nightmare, I was in a castle. In that castle, I found an old woman being tortured by some kind of demon, and I tried to help her. She and I ran – we ran for our lives, you understand – and ended up being chased by giant spiders towards an enormous mountain topped by a glowing green wormhole. Oh…you’ve probably never heard of a wormhole…um…well, a giant green slit in the sky. The old woman and I climbed the mountain. Somehow she made it up before me, and when she reached down to help me up, we switched places. She yelled at me to keep going – that I had to survive. And I had always heard that if you died in a dream, you died in real life, so I went through the wormhole.” She paused for a breath, finally looking up to search his face. “The next thing I knew, I was chained up in a dungeon being interrogated by Cassandra.”

            “What are you…” he heard himself asking, but she held up a finger.

            “I’m not done,” she insisted. “I thought I was still dreaming. Because people were dressed like knights and Cassandra had a sword and she was hollering at me about a bunch of people dying at some kind of gathering I had never heard of. And my hand was glowing. I suddenly had this giant gash in my hand and it was glowing green like the other part of my dream, so I thought I was still dreaming.”

            Her face was as serious and pale as he’d ever seen it. She looked sick. Worried. Completely exhausted. And he wondered vaguely how much of that was the story she was spinning, and how much was from a week of searching for him. _Another thing to regret._

            “Where I’m from, no one keeps a sword buckled onto their belt. There are no demons, no abominations. No Templars or apostates. No Avvar, no blood mages, no dragons, and no darkspawn. These things don’t exist. Knights belong to fairy tales. They are children’s bedtime stories and nothing more. My clothes were made of man-made materials you’ve never heard of. I rode in vehicles that propelled themselves, without horses. I had…God…I had indoor plumbing. I miss indoor plumbing.

            “But I’m getting off track.” She was starting to wave her hands around nervously. “Cassandra took me out to the Breach, and I met Solas and Varric. And I swear to you, Thom, I almost fainted. I told you, humans are the only…well… _humanoid_ species where I come from. I’d only read about dwarves and elves in kid’s books or seen them in movies.” She shook her head absently. “I’ll explain moves later. It’s not important now. Anyway, I thought it _had_ to be a dream. And then Solas showed me how to use the giant gash on my hand to close the damn hole in the sky and I was _sure_ I was still dreaming.

            “Everything just seemed so unbelievable. In that fight under the Breach? I could have sworn I’d see _electricity_ come out of my hands. But I knew it wasn’t possible, so again, I figured I was dreaming. Nothing added up. I had no reason to believe that Haven or Leliana, or the Inquisition or _any_ of it was real. But days and days went by and I didn’t snap out of it. I didn’t inexplicably find myself back in my apartment in the city. I was waking up day after day in that little room in the Chantry, stone walls and straw mattress and the clang of swords outside my window. I started to think that maybe I was going crazy.

            “They called me the Herald of Andraste and I had to borrow books from Josephine’s office to even figure out who that was. They said they were going to restore order to the Chantry and I had to go and find a copy of the Chant of Light because I didn’t know anything about it. Day after day, just a swamp of things I didn’t understand, everything being constantly thrown at me because _one_ day in _one_ moment of stupidity, I had claimed to be from Ferelden because I thought I was dreaming and it didn’t matter.”

            The remarkable consistency of what she was saying held him captive. If it was a lie, it was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard and he deserved it, because he had lied to her in turn. _But she looks so…_ sincere, he decided, was how she looked. She had the same clean expression of earnestness she’d had that night in the hayloft. _And what an idiot I was then…Maker’s balls…_

            “It wasn’t until weeks went by and I was still waking up in Haven day after day that I started to think that maybe I’d time travelled, or jumped through an actual wormhole in my nightmare, or something else equally crazy. Everybody was flesh and blood, as best as I could tell. Everyone was on the same page, abided by the same history and same present. I was being taught how to fight, how to shoot lightning out of my fingers. It was…” she paused, a small smile quirking in the corner of her mouth. “Well…it was kind of fun, if I let myself forget that it wasn’t real.”

            She did reach out, then, and grazed her fingers across the bars of his cell, letting them linger and pursing her lips back into something like seriousness. “It was somewhere around there that they sent me to find you.” She grasped the cell bars tightly and tugged a little, as if she was willing them to pull apart from sheer force of want. The sight of it ripped another merciless flood of regret through him. “You know full well that I’d never killed anyone before that day. Where I come from, that’s not a part of everyday survival. No one was chasing me down with a set of daggers, no one ever swung a greatsword at me. It’s just not how I lived, so…” she shuddered a little. He had an inkling that the memory of that day was still sharp for her, even though it was six months and many battles gone. “I was instantly grateful for you. You must know that. The single most traumatic thing that had ever happened to me… and I was a complete stranger to you, and you were so gentle with me.” Her eyes were so wide, so sad, that he cursed himself under his breath. “And I know you yelled at Cassandra for bringing me. I heard you.”

            “Darc—”

            “No.” She held up her hand again. “Still not done.” Here she tucked elbows into the inside of either knee, clasped her hands together near her heels, and took a steadying breath. “At that point, everyone was talking about sealing the Breach. About using my mark to seal it up and fix the hole in the sky and make everything right again. And I started thinking – if I came through it when it opened, maybe I could send myself back when it closed. It would take a miracle, but maybe I could manage it – just slingshot myself back through the Breach and be back in my own bed by dinner time.”

            This story might be the most implausible thing he’d ever heard. But he knew her – he thought he did ( _But then again, she thought she knew me_ ) and the Darcy he knew would never go this far out of her way just to spin a lie. The Darcy he knew didn’t like to lie, not ever. _And if that’s true…this must be true, too…_

            “Needless to say,” she sighed heavily. “It didn’t work. The Breach closed, but I was still here. I was…devastated. It was my only plan. The only idea I’d come up with to get home.” Her face was slack with the memory. “I gave up. I resigned myself to being here forever. And I was furious about it. But what could I do? I had no plans, no inspiration of any kind, I had…nothing. Of course, that was the night Haven was attacked, so soon we all had less than nothing.”

            She sat up on her knees, inching forward just close enough to be able to properly look up at him. “I gave up. I thought…if I had to be stuck somewhere I didn’t belong where a lot of people already seemed to want me dead? Well…I might as well go down with the ship. So I stayed behind to bury the village.”

            “ _Maker_ …” he couldn’t help but let those two syllables out.

            “But not even that could go right. I survived, _again_ , and again without any clue as to how. But something in me had changed. Not quite like flipping a switch, but more like a pot beginning to boil. I healed myself as best as I could, and I got up, and I started walking. Because if I had survived, then so had all of you. I told myself that for hours – or days – I still have no real idea of how long I was out there before Cullen and Cassandra found me. But I just kept telling myself, over and over, if I made it through, then so had all of you. And that kept me going.”

            The change in her had been very real. He’d seen it himself. She’d been scared, in Haven…hesitant. But once she had come to at that Void taken camp in the mountains, she was different. Stronger. More willing. And it only grew after that.

            “I mean, I wasn’t wild about the idea of becoming Inquisitor, when they brought out that enormous sword and everybody was gathered in the courtyard, just staring at me. But…” her eyes sparkled. They caught what light was coming through the barred windows, and they _shone_. “But I thought...maybe…just maybe…I could let myself belong here. It was impossible, I thought, but so was everything else that had happened since that first nightmare.”

            “I don’t—”

            “Just a little bit more,” she assured him. “I won’t go into what happened after we got to Skyhold. You were there for all of that. And I had since stopped trying to get home, so it’s not really important. But what _is_ important is that you’re only the third person I’ve ever told. And before you ask, no, Cullen doesn’t know. He doesn’t need to know, just like Leliana and Josie and Cassandra don’t need to know. Varric needed to know because I needed to be able to tell someone, and he really is my best friend. As weird as that seems, he really is. And of course Hawke knows, because she knows everything Varric knows. They’re a package deal. But…” she sighed, long and low. “You need to know because I need you to know that you can trust me. I need you to know that I can forgive a lie, when it changes your life for the better. Because both of us lied to change our lives. And I think…I think that’s okay. So…I forgive you for lying. And I hope you can forgive me, too.”

            She finally sat back, her story exhausted, and dropped her eyes into her lap. “But if you can’t? If you can’t trust me, or you don’t believe me, that’s…well, it’s not okay…but I would understand. I know you didn’t have those people killed because you like death. You thought you were doing your job and you were trying to move up in the world. And that’s not really a great reason, but it’s a reason. But…trying to live up to the man you believe Warden Blackwall was…it’s made you a good man.”

            “May I?” He asked, after she had been quiet for a few minutes.

            “Please,” she waved her hand in invitation.

            “I don’t know if I fully understand everything you’ve just told me,” _Maker’s balls, that’s an understatement…_ “But I respect what you’ve done. You’re a good woman and a fine leader, and Maker knows how hard you’ve worked to make the Inquisition into something honourable. So I don’t,” he rattled around in his head for the right phrase. “I don’t rightly think it matters where you were born. Or how you were raised.” He paused, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with both forefingers. “But it’s not the same thing that I’ve done. It’s kind of you to compare them, but that doesn’t surprise me. You are the kindest soul I’ve ever known.” Another pause. “It’s one of the things I love about you.” A breath passed between them, a quiet sigh or something they couldn’t identify. Something like sorrow, or regret, but with a whisper of hope. “What I’ve done is a crime. I’ve killed people for greed. And I’ve let innocent men pay for it for too many years. That keeps me far below you, I’m afraid. You’ve done a noble thing. I’ve been a coward.”

            She stood, pushing off from the ground to get her footing instead of pulling on his cell bars like he’d expected her to. She took a measured step backward.

            “I’ll keep your secret,” he promised. “I’ll take it to my grave. It’s not far away, that, so I promise to keep it safe.”

            The little whisper of a smile that she had nursed when he mentioned loving her was swept away by an emotionless mask. He knew that face. She was the Inquisitor now, not his Darcy. _She’s not yours, stop thinking that way. You’ll be dead and gone and she’ll move on._

            “I’m having you moved to the Inquisition’s custody,” she told him flatly. “There’s nothing you can say about it and there’s nothing you could possibly do to stop me.”

            His breath hitched noticeably. “You intend to judge me yourself?”

            “I do.” She nodded, and strode down the hallway, letting the door slam behind her.


	22. Amends

            Darcy didn’t think she’d ever seen the main hall as tense as it was this morning. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath – the air stood still around them. _You have to do this_ , she reminded herself. _You were the one who said you would do this. This is your responsibility now._

            She’d spent the entire previous night rolling over the options with her advisors. She could have him killed, of course, but they all knew she wouldn’t do that. If she’d wanted him to die, she would have left him in Val Royeaux. But still, Cullen was pushing for life imprisonment: making an example of him for other soldiers who might be tempted to give in to the same kind of greed that he had.

            Leliana preferred the idea of sending him to Weisshaupt. Wardens were in short supply since the Blight, and Corypheus had destroyed their numbers. Wasn’t it only fitting that he be made to take up the responsibility that he had feigned for so long?

            And then there was Josephine. Sweet, lovely Josephine, who said that _perhaps_ , if he were allowed to atone for his sins as a free man, he might be the better for it. And not a single person in the room believed she meant it – but Darcy was grateful that someone was allowing her the space to even consider it. She could just release him. Just set him free. Of course, he might still leave the Inquisition – leave her – but she’d know for sure that he was free. That he didn’t have to run anymore, or hide. A pardon meant he would be safe.

            She hadn’t slept at all, and the hushed whispers floating through the crowd of nobles was punctuated by gasps of shock and scandalous giggles. No doubt, word had gotten around Val Royeaux about their relationship. It wasn’t exactly a guarded secret in Skyhold, but she was sure half of Orlais knew by now.

             Cullen, for his part, hadn’t instigated a fight. He was furious over the situation – had called Thom a traitor and a perjurer – and she couldn’t tell him he was wrong. But at the end of it all, when sentences had been discussed, Leliana and Josephine had departed, and Darcy was left stifling back tears at the war table, he had bent his head next to her and nudged their shoulders together. “How are you faring?” He had asked.

            “I’ve been better,” she admitted with a shrug.

            “You’re doing well,” he assured her. “No one can blame you for being upset. We’re all…much more upset than most of us would like to admit. Maker knows this has hit _you_ the hardest.” He had stood then, pulling on the back of his neck with one nervous hand. “I am sorry. Truly, I am. I would never wish this sort of pressure on my worst enemy.”

            “Thank you,” she’d managed to squeak out. “You don’t have to be nice about it, you know. I…I know how much you…well, you’ve never really liked him, have you?”

            “That’s no secret,” he agreed half-heartedly. “And I can’t say I’m surprised to find out that the man is less than honourable. But…” he had shrugged a little, pacing away from the war table. “But he was willing to atone for it. And if,” another pull at his neck. “Maker’s breath…I can’t pretend I’m not furious for losing you to him. I am. But you’ve made your decision and that’s it. I hope I’m a big enough man to put your happiness above my own grievances.” He came to a stop on her other side, not quite touching her but not shying away.

            “Thank you,” she said again, laying one hand down on top of his for the briefest moment. “I was afraid I’d pushed you away entirely. I’m glad that…” the tears behind her eyes were almost bursting. “I hope you can forgive me, eventually, for not getting myself sorted out sooner. You know I never wanted to hurt you.”

            “I know,” he looked down at his feet, and then at her. “Give me time.”

 

            The memory of her last conversation with Cullen blended into her last conversation with Blackwall, as she sat on the Inquisition throne and waited. Waited for what seemed like an eternity. The dais had been cleared, and everyone in the hall was craning to see. Everyone except their friends, who ringed the edges of the room and buried themselves in dread.

            Josephine cleared her throat gently when she emerged from her office, and Darcy snapped to attention. “For judgement this day, Inquisitor,” Josephine stepped onto the lower platform of the dais. “I must present Captain Thom Rainier. Formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall. His crimes…” Josephine was obviously distressed, but her professional mask was tied on tight. “Well, you are aware of his crimes. It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is now yours.”

            The guards brought him up to the edge of the platform, and Darcy felt like she was being split in half. Here, in their home, he had been chained and imprisoned. By her, no less. He was dirty, sunken in to himself and defeated. He might actually fall over if the guards let go of him. She had to work to keep in the howl that was shaking through her, and she swallowed it down with all her might. "I knew this was going to be hard,” she admitted, more to herself than to anyone else. “But it’s harder than I thought.”

            “Another thing to regret.” His head was hanging almost to his shoulders and Darcy had to dig her fingernails into the throne in order to not jump forward and throw her arms around him. “What did you have to do to release me?” When he finally looked up, she saw that his face was as pale and gaunt as her own. _We’ve both been crying like idiots. No sleep. No rest at all…_

            “It doesn’t matter,” she told him, her voice falling flat. “We did what we had to do.”

            “You should’ve left me there.” There was a growl in his voice that she hadn’t expected. “I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all this to end. Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?”

            And that was when it hit her: he was afraid she was planning to kill him herself. Terrified that when the sword came at his neck, she would be the one wielding it. She dug her nails in deeper, feeling a few splinters of wood stabbing under her fingernails, watching for a moment as her knuckles started to turn white. _Now or never. This is why you brought him here. This is what you’ve decided. It’s up to you._

            “Warden Blackwall wanted you for the Order. Your Joining was interrupted by his death.” _Come on, Darce, you can do this. You **have** to do. For him._ She pushed her voice out as loud as she could. “You will, at the conclusion of your time with the Inquisition, travel to Weisshaupt Fortress to join the Grey Wardens.” A tremor of gasps and stunned cries shook through the crowd. “Until then, you will continue your work here.”

            But the shock the nobles felt was nothing compared to the way he was looking at her now. “Just like that? You’d let me live?”

            “As I understand it,” she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “The Joining is not a guarantee. Many recruits never make it into the Warden’s ranks.” _God help me, is sending you there really the best idea?_ “I am giving you the chance to keep the promises you’ve already been working towards. To atone as the man you are, not as the man you pretended to be.”

            The entire time, she had been avoiding his eyes. One glance at them and she’d lose all of her strength – all of her resolve. She’d break in half with grief or run to him or maybe just run. But he found her – eyes pink around the edges, darkened from lack of sleep. “What…of us?” He asked quietly.

            She felt herself rise up off the throne without any prompting. A few steps forward and she was standing in front of him, where he was bowed on one knee. Carefully, carefully enough to control whatever shreds of impulse she had left, she knelt down and looked into his face. “We can talk about it later. Without a horde of nobles standing by. Okay?”

            Later meant after the main hall was cleared and Darcy had stared at a mountain of reports for enough hours that the words all started to blur together. The news from the Arbor Wilds was troubling, to say the very least. Everyone agreed that it was their next destination, and the fact that Leliana and Morrigan had actually agreed on anything was what had made Darcy snap to attention. She’d gone through the report three times now, making sure she hadn’t missed anything and that she’d understood everything correctly – jotting little notes in the margins and adding a sheet of concerns to the inside of the folder. When she finally couldn’t take sitting anymore, she tucked the folder under her arm and set out across the keep.

            Cullen was in his office, as always. She knocked on the door absently and pushed her way through, because it was never locked and he never cared when she barged in. “I’m going cross-eyed,” she told him, pinching her eyes shut and rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “But I’ve gone through it and marked down a few questions.” The second she opened her eyes, she knew she should have knocked.

            Cullen was standing behind his desk, fists flat against its surface in a blunted display of frustration. Across from him, no more than two feet away from the door, was Blackwall. The two men were standing staunch still, staring at her.

            “Uh…sorry…” she felt a vicious blush rising in her cheeks. “I’ll…just leave this…” she dropped the report on the desk, tucked tail, and fled.

            “Darcy!” She heard both of them shout. They were both out the door after her before she was even halfway across the bridge.

            “Whatever you think you walked in on, I promise it wasn’t that,” Cullen swore.

            “You weren’t berating him for lying to me?” She made herself look Cullen in the eyes, and then Blackwall. “And you? You weren’t in there telling him how he shouldn’t have ever let me come after you?”

            The men were suspiciously silent. “Okay. It wasn’t _only_ what you think,” Cullen conceded.

            “I came up here to ask the Commander to enlist me,” Blackwall told her, taking a careful step forward. “The Inquisition still has work to do, and every soldier counts. I can carry my weight in a battle, so I thought I’d go where I could be of use.”

            She flicked her eyes between them. She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually seen them this physically close to each other without swords drawn. “And?” She asked, keeping her tone calm and her eyes between them.

            “And I told him no,” Cullen had one hand on the pommel of his sword and the other was tugging absent-mindedly at his sash. “If he wants to be where he can be of best use, that’s with you. Not off in the Approach clearing out wyvern.”

            _Well that’s exactly the opposite of what I expected you to say…_ Her wheels were turning, trying to make sure she’d just heard him correctly. _You actually told him to stay with me, instead of sending him as far away from Skyhold as possible?_

“I’ll, um…I’ll leave you to it,” Cullen nodded curtly and went back into his office, closing the door securely behind him.

            Face-to-face and alone with Blackwall was very much too much for Darcy to handle. Her insides started to shake and quiver, from genuine nerves as well as the sheer ache of worry. But the second he opened his mouth, her nerves won out. “You don’t have to—”

            “Please let me—”

            “I’m just going to go.” Darcy turned on her heel and summoned every ounce of strength she had left ( _Which isn’t much…_ ) to keep herself from breaking out into a sprint. _He was willing to die rather than stay with me. The thought of waking up next to me was so horrific that he delivered himself to prison. Walk away. Just. Walk. Away._

            “Darcy…” the absolute sadness in his voice made her falter.

            “It’s okay.” She was already wiping at her eyes – feeling the tears before they had a chance to even start. “You don’t need to explain. You left. I get it…”

            “Not because of you.” He took a cautious step forward. “I didn’t go because I didn’t want to be with you. It wasn’t that I don’t love you.” She didn’t shrink back when he took her hand, so he took another step into her. “I went because you deserve a better man than I can ever be. And the closest thing I could ever to good or honourable or…Maker’s balls…even _decent_ …was to take responsibility for what I’ve done. Dying with honour was the only kind of hope I could find, before you set me free.” He reached for her other hand. “The only man I ever want to be in the one you inspire me to be.”

            There they were: those tears that plagued every moment of her life. They brought sadness in on a whim and washed away happiness in a wave of doubt. “So,” she sniffed them back in vain. _How childish am I that this is my first and loudest thought?_ “You still love me?”

            He smiled in a way that seemed to split him in half, holding back a rumble of laughter and pulling her tight against him. “Oh, Maker…yes. I will always love you.”

            And once, just that once, as he leaned down to kiss her in the first drops of afternoon rain, they were tears of joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're hitting the home stretch, guys!  
> I can't say how grateful I am that so many of you are reading <3  
> It really, truly means the world to me.


	23. Against Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been suffering from INTENSE writer's block, and been trying to work through it very slowly with some drabble work. On the plus side, I'll be posting a new drabble series soon, featuring two OCs! (Well, that's a plus for me, I hope you'll all give it a read when it goes up <3) Thank you for being so awesome :)

            Whatever she had expected to find in the Arbor Wilds, this was not it. Corypheus’ lackeys plagued them at every single turn, making forward progress arduous at the very best, and nearly desperate at worst. Puzzles and mind games and ancient spirit warriors guarding the way into an impossible shrine to an inconceivable source of power.

Morrigan flitting in away in a blast of magic and feathers was unexpected, to say the least. Well, Morrigan making a grab at power wasn’t really _that_ much of a surprise, given what Leliana had related of their time traveling together – the surprise was the bit about turning into a bird.

            The click of their boot heels echoed ominously through the age old sanctuary ( _because we needed something else to make us jumpy_ ) as they followed the old sentinel through a maze of glittering rooms that they didn’t have time to explore. The temple didn’t smell musty, the way Darcy expected it to. An ancient ruin in the middle of what was essentially a rain forest should have smelled of decayed vegetation, and maybe a little mold, and certainly of dampness. Instead the caverns smelled cool, like the way a pool inside a cave smelled like nighttime and freshness. The plants that twined along the walls were unidentifiable but thriving, giving the whole place an almost sensuous glow of _life_.

            Room after room, and the sound of fighting beyond the walls never stopped. The other Sentinels were holding off the Red Templars while they made their way towards the Well of Sorrows, and for the millionth time, Darcy wondered what exactly they were walking in to. _Ah well, not like we haven’t walked blindly into certain death-like_ situations before, right? But the thought made her pause momentarily, and she glanced around her: Solas was practically strolling behind her, taking all the time he could muster to take in the temple around him (And who could blame him? This had to be a dream come true for him.) Varric was to her left, Bianca at the ready, trying his best to look sure of himself, giving her a theatrical wink when she looked her way. To her right, Thom had his sword drawn and his eyes open, on his guard for anything. Every once in a while he would shift his eyes over to her, because who knew what kind of insane spirit might be inhabiting this place that might try to house itself inside an unprepared mage.

“I’m okay, love,” she murmured, when she caught him inspecting her for the twentieth time.

            “Can’t blame me for worrying,” he muttered back, and they shared a half-smile.

            _I’d probably worry if you **stopped** checking_ , she thought with a shake of her head.

            Two doors later, their Sentinel guide stopped, bowed graciously to Darcy, and walked away – leaving them standing in front of an enormous set of double doors. “I’m assuming this is it,” she turned to Solas. “Any idea what we’re going to find?”

            “There is no way to know,” his voice was low, deadly serious. “But we must be on our guard.”

            “Right.” Darcy cleared her throat and rolled her staff between her hands. “Here goes nothing.”

            The doors opened easily, sending them down a flight of overgrown stairs, and straight into a fleet of Red Templars. The last time any of them had seen General Samson, he had been on the top of a mountain, laughing as his army (and a fucking enormous dragon) leveled Haven. Now, Darcy was seething. He was a greasy, gray, sallow shelf of a man, bolstered by an enormous set of armour.

            _Thank God for Dagna_ , Darcy thought, as she slipped her fingers around the odd little rune that was supposed to bring all of that corrupted power to a screeching halt. Something about this last moment – this last breath before the fight for the prize (if you could call the Well a prize) made Darcy think again of the climax of an Indiana Jones movie. She’d walked in the steps of history, carefully lighting up ancient Elven ritual steps while she quoted “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” playfully in her head. _Only the penitent man shall pass,_ she had reminded herself, carefully stepping around the vines.

            This, though, was the great breath on the threshold of destruction. Getting past Samson was the last step before the Well. The Well, they all thought, was the last step before Corypheus. And Corypheus was the last step before the end of the world.

            _No pressure, Darce._

            But everything, everything they had gone through to get to this point – it was all completely worth it just to watch Samson’s face fall in horror, as Dagna’s amazing little rune brought the sickening man to his knees. Now he was just an over-the-hill Templar in slightly above average armour, and she was relatively certain that Solas could flatten him with no more than two of three blows from his staff. The ensuing fight was more difficult than that, of course, but undeniably easier than it ever would have been without Dagna’s help. Inquisition soldiers could take the bastard back to Skyhold. A little present for Cullen, in a weird sort of way. He deserved to be the one to judge his old colleague – not her.

            It wasn’t until they were standing in front of the Well of Sorrows (which was more like a wading pool, if she was going to be pedantic about it) with Morrigan and Abelas that Darcy’s confidence wavered. Someone had to drink, they all knew it. Abelas had resigned the decision after a short exchange with Solas – though both men seemed less than pleased about the whole thing, and who could blame them?

            The decision was down to her or Morrigan. The idea of giving the witch that much power was even less appealing than the thought of fighting Samson a second time, but Darcy couldn’t find it within herself to fight against it. She wasn’t _from_ here. She didn’t have any right to that kind of knowledge. She wouldn’t know what to do with it. If anything, it might be completely wasted on her. Who knew if the Well would even work on her? A quick look at Varric and Thom told her that they were thinking the same thing. Neither of them trusted Morrigan, but if they needed the information from that Well to defeat Corypheus, they couldn’t risk it not working. They couldn’t risk losing their advantage.

            “Morrigan,” Darcy inclined her head and found herself glaring up at the witch with a highly uncharacteristic glower. “Be careful.” The look was a warning all itself. _Fuck up, or run off, or betray us in any way, and you will regret it. We will find you, and you will pay for it in every single way we can think of._

            “I understand, Inquisitor,” Morrigan nodded gravely, and stepped forward.

            The waters of the Well swept over Morrigan in a colossal wave, knocking the others to their feet. Darcy found Thom dragging her to her feet faster than she could get to them herself, Varric and Solas scrabbling up on either side of them, weapons drawn and ready.

            But there Morrigan sat, still and a bit dazed, in the middle of the now-empty Well. _Not a single one of us was hurt in any way? Too easy._ They knew better, thank God, than to think they were safe; so when a thick black smoke started snaking around their ankles, they formed up quickly – backs together and weapons drawn.

            A few seconds slower, and they would have been battling Corypheus himself for the power of the Well. He practically sauntered up to the railing that overlooked the shrine, certain to find Samson there, snarling and triumphant. Instead, he found five members of the Inquisiton staring back at him.

            They only had a split second to react, but it was enough. Darcy shepherded them all through the Eluvian, throwing herself after them just before Corypheus landed on the edge of the Well. The last thing she saw before the flash of magic enveloped her, was the spirit of the Well rising up, blocking the magister’s path.

 

It the week following the advisor’s return from the Arbor Wilds and Samson’s judgement, Skyhold bristled with tension. They all knew what came next. They all knew how close to the end they were – and one way or the other, this was going to end soon. Corypheus had nothing left, the advisors had told her. His army was defeated, his Wardens had been stolen out from under his feet. His inner circle had been either captured or killed. He had a dragon, of course, but Morrigan promised that the power of the Well enabled her to match a dragon’s power. Everything was eerily quiet, like the calm before the storm, and Darcy found herself praying more and more in the days that followed the Wilds. She still had no idea why she’d started praying again, but it seemed to even her out anxiety for a little while, so she indulged the odd habit.

            One day she even dragged herself down to the chapel on the edge of the garden to sit amongst the candles and incense. It didn’t matter that it was a statue of Andraste instead of the Virgin Mary or Jesus, it just mattered that the atmosphere was right. It mattered that it was a place for prayer (unlike her quarters, which had become a place for something very different since she and Thom had reconciled).

            She knocked but there was no answer, so she pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside. Expecting to find the chapel empty, she found Cullen instead. His head twitched just a little at the sound of the door opening, and Darcy flushed with embarrassment. Even she knew better than to interrupt someone during prayer. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’ll come back later.”

            “No,” he motioned for her to stay. “I was just finishing. I’ll leave you.”

            They found an awful stalemate, though, when they moved to pass each other and stuck in the middle of the floor. “I’m not sure how proper this is,” he started, stretching his neck towards the ceiling and turning his eyes up with a little groan. “But I don’t think that there is any proper way to do this at all.”

            “To do what?” Darcy felt herself go cold all over. What could _possibly_ be complicating things now? They had just started being able to be friends again!

            “To tell you that I’m glad that you’re happy.” He dropped his head to look down at her. “The Wilds…sending you after him…I know all manner of uncertainty has plagued our…relationship,” he seemed to cringe at the word. “But through it, I believe you are possibly the best friend I have had in a very long time. And I’m grateful that I didn’t lose you to all of the doubt.”

            “Cullen…” she reached out instinctively to hug him, and they stood like that for a while. “I’m not dumb enough to think I’m going to make it through this,” she bit back the ever-present flush of tears that lived behind her eyes. “So just – before it all goes south – know that I couldn’t have done any of this without you. And I don’t regret any of the time we had together. And I’m so…” a single tear escaped. “I’m grateful for you.”

            “Oh Maker,” he laughed a little, and tugged her in for a tighter hug. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t talk like it’s over.”

            “I tell you what,” she stepped back enough to wipe her eyes and put on a half-smile. “When the bastard’s dead, you’re buying drinks, okay?”

            That startled a laugh out of him, and he shook his head. “Deal.”


	24. Wonder

            Nothing, nothing in the history of ever, had _ever_ scared Darcy as much as getting separated from her companions; stuck, floating away on crumbling stone. Alone, with Corypheus.

            This was nothing like Haven. In Haven, she wasn’t a real threat yet. In Haven, the Inquisition was something he thought he could squish under his (weirdly deformed and grungy) little toe. Now he was angry. He was desperate. And Darcy might actually have a chance of beating him, if she could just get to her feet and stay there. The stone swayed underneath them, and she stumbled. Stumbled again and again.

            And Corypheus _laughed._

            The bastard actually laughed at her. And that made her angrier than anything else. She’d worked so hard to get here – they all had. And it was going to be motion sickness that brought her down?

_Oh, hell no._

            She drew herself up to her full five feet and six inches (not all that intimidating to the demon floating in front of her, but she worked with what she had), and raised her arm out in front of her like a sword. _This is it_ , she thought to herself, as the Anchor crackled to life. _Either this works and we live to repair the damage done; or it fails, and the world ends before anyone has a chance to think twice._ Green light split the sky around them and she heard Corypheus roar in fury. _But it had better work. Because I didn’t get thrown here for no reason. I didn’t get tossed into all of this insanity just to fail at the last second. I didn’t agree to lead the Inquisition just to have the world melt down around us._

            The orb – that fucking orb that had haunted her since word one, was floating in a net of fiery red magic above Corypheus’ head. He was calling to the old gods – calling for support, calling for aide. And Darcy took one, single look at the orb, and it flew into her hand – pulled back to her like a yo-yo on a string. The sight of Corypheus crumbling to his knees almost made her snarl, something in it was so satisfying that she felt completely overcome by it. A moment later, the orb had dropped by her feet, a useless ball of stone. And he was gone: swallowed up in a blast of green fire that ripped the sky apart and sent him hurling into oblivion.

            She could have _danced_ in that moment, if not for the enormous boulders falling from the sky all around her.

 _One of these days, I’ll stop blacking out_ , she thought, shaking her eyes open. The ground had settled beneath her – the boulders had stopped falling. She would have been certain that she’d been hit by one, except that she was alive and relatively unharmed (at least, there didn’t seem to be any _new_ wounds).

            “Solas?” He was the only one near. The only _anything_ near. And he was crouched over the orb, looking incredibly wretched. “We’ll find a way to fix it. Or at least, to study it.” She promised – figuring that there was probably nothing Dagna wouldn’t happily pour over.

            “So much has been lost,” she heard him whisper.

            “But…Corypheus is dead. We have _time_ to find…whatever there is to find out.”

            “I want you to know,” he stood and faced her, face drawn in seriousness. “That you will always have my utmost respect, Inquisitor.”

            The moment of silence between them was broken by Cassandra’s booming cry. “Inquisitor? Are you alive?”

            _The others_. Darcy spun on her heel, feeling surprisingly spry for someone who had just taken down a usurper god, and bolted for the great stone stairwell. At the bottom of the long spiral, her friends were staring up at her.

            “Well, shit,” Varric laughed, and she could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes.

            No one else said a word as Darcy leapt down the steps two at a time and threw herself into Thom’s arms. They were sobbing like idiots – so _fucking_ grateful that the other one was alive that they couldn’t care less who else was around.

            When they finally found the strength to remember their friends, Darcy smiled her biggest, most honest smile, and nodded to Cassandra. “Let’s go home,” she said.

 

            No one should have been surprised by the welcome they faced when they walked through Skyhold’s gates, but they all looked to each other with something like hazy disbelief when they saw that the whole of the Inquisition was sprawled out along the path from the gate to the main keep. Pilgrims flooded the courtyard, soldiers stood at attention. And up on the landing, Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen stood waiting for them.

            They bowed when Darcy ascended the steps, and Cullen held out his hand to shake hers, but she only laughed and hugged him. “Looks like I’m buying,” he joked, and they finally did shake hands. After everything, the relief they both felt was overwhelming.

            No one should have been surprised that the Inquisition was waiting for them to return, and no one should have been surprised that Josephine had organized a party in the seemingly miniscule amount of time that they had been gone. The main hall was glowing, candles spread over every surface that could hold them, and music floated down from the balcony where Vivienne usually perched herself. Food was everywhere, and drinks flowed freely. The last piece of business for the day was to start the search for Solas, but Leliana assured her that she had it under control, and ushered her into the hall.

            Other than finding something to eat, all Darcy wanted to do was sleep. She wanted to sleep for _days_ if she could manage it, but her friends would have none of that.

            Varric and Bull were telling a trio of nobles about the time that they had taken down a high dragon in the Western Approach. Josephine was actually drinking and enjoying herself, flushing under the attention of one of the Rivaini nobles who had been staying at the keep for an unusually long amount of time. Cullen and Cassandra leaned against one wall, appreciating that they actually had time to lean. Darcy drifted by one table, snagging a large chunk of bread and a slightly smaller one of cheese, and continued to drift. Dorian grabbed her elbow halfway down the hall and slung one arm around her, proudly telling the Orlesian ladies who had been fussing over him that Darcy was absolutely the only woman in the world for him and since she was already taken, he would let his wounded heart fester for all time; and five minutes later she spied him in a dark corner with a young man that had arrived at Skyhold as some minor noble’s bodyguard.

            Food be damned, she wanted sleep. And if she didn’t go now, someone else was going to demand her attention, so she slipped towards the foredoor to her quarters and was nearly certain that she’d gotten away when a set of fingers squeezed her shoulder.

            “Sneaking away?” Thom asked, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

            “Want to sneak with me?”

            She didn’t even wait for him to reply, just dragged him through the door after her and slammed the iron lock shut as soon as they were on the other side. He descended on her immediately, pressing her up against the stone wall and dragging her into his arms. “You did it…” he whispered, over and over.

            “Shh,” she kissed both of his cheeks and pulled him up the stairs, all the way out on to her balcony. The sky had cleared, the sun was approaching the horizon, and the air was cool and crisp. It was almost like nothing had ever happened.

            “So, what happens now?” She asked him, when his arms were twined around her again and his chin was resting on her shoulder.

            “Well, I suppose…” she felt him shuffle his feet between hers. “At some point, I’ll be reporting to Weisshaupt for my Joining.”

            “Not yet,” she tugged his arms closer. “When you go, I want to bring you. I want to make sure…” she stumbled over the thought. “Make sure you get there safely.”

            “I’ll miss you, love,” he murmured into her hair.

            “We’ll think about it later,” she reached up to cup his cheek and then turned her head to kiss him. “For now…we won.”

            _It’s over. It’s all done. And everybody lived. Just this once, everybody lived._


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POST Trespasser!

            At times like these, Darcy deeply regretted having let her hair grow so long. It came down past her shoulders now, and she had formerly trained it nicely into a braid that she could easily wrap around the crown of her head and pin in place. Now, though, she could barely get a ribbon around it on her own.

            “Stupid…fucking…hair…” she grunted, pulling at it with her one good hand. It absolutely would not cooperate and she threw the ribbon down onto the vanity in front of her with a heaving sob. Her head dropped into her hand and she moved to slam her other fist on the table top before she remembered that the stinging ache in her arm meant she had no other fist.

            A warm, solid hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality. “Let me,” Thom murmured, reaching down for the ribbon. He had a deft hand for braiding now, after so much practice, and her hair was securely tied in no time.

            “You shouldn’t have to baby me like this,” she protested when he pulled up the stool next to her and began to retie the long band of fabric she kept wound around the end of her arm.

            “It’s no trouble, love.” He insisted.

            “I’m not an infant. I should be able to take care of herself.” She was sure she had said this to him every day since the Exalted Council, but it never stopped being true.

            “I’m happy to take care of you.” He tucked the lose end of the fabric back in place and kissed her shoulder.

            “And you’ll be doing it for the rest of your fucking life,” she grumbled, pushing away from the vanity to find her boots, which she would inevitably spend an hour battling against.

            “What did you say?” His eyes jerked up to her, wide and bright.

            “Nothing. Never mind.” _Boots, boots. Where are my boots,_ she thought as loudly as she could, trying to drown out the sound of her own stupidity. _Thirty years old and you still can’t ever say the right thing._

            “You said ‘rest of your life’.” He was up and across the room with her in an instant, fingers of her one hand tangled tightly in all ten of his.

            “It’s a figure of speech, Thom,” she couldn’t shake him off – too many fingers against too few, plus she liked holding his hands too much to really mind.

            One hand reached up to take the tip of her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and he settled his lips against hers in a soft, sweet kiss. “Marry me?” he whispered, leaning their foreheads together.

            “What?” Darcy felt her heart skip one – two – three beats.

            “Marry me.” He said it again, and the words fell on her ears like a heavenly prayer. “I should have asked a long, long time ago.”

            Her throat seemed to stick, and she dearly hoped that the strangled sound that came out of it conveyed some semblance of agreement. She threaded her hand through his hair and tugged him as close as she possibly could – something akin to trying to fuse their bodies together by sheer force of will. “Do they let Grey Wardens get married?”

            Honestly, she’d put the thought out of her head. He’d joined the Wardens two years ago, and she’d only come to join him at Weisshaupt about a month ago. It was a miracle they’d let her stay as long as they had, and she wasn’t about to try their hospitality any more than she already had. Marriage didn’t seem like it would ever be in the cards for them, just like children were out of the question. She was content enough to just be with him. After everything they’d be through, just being together seemed like enough.

            “I’m sure they’d make an exception, for personal friends of Divine Victoria,” he teased at her lips, stealing light little kisses.

            She laughed aloud at the thought of Cassandra declaring a writ – or whatever it was that she declared – that would permit them to get married. _Being friends with the Pope has its advantages…_

            “I don’t know how much longer I can stay with you,” she reminded him. “We’re rallying at Skyhold in just a few weeks. Finding Solas is going to take all the man power we’ve got left.”

            “If you’ve got to go,” he tightened his arms around her. “Then go as my wife.”

            Darcy didn’t think she’d ever get used to happy tears. To boiling over with joy so strong that it overwhelmed her. But every time it happened, it was this man that brought it on. This miracle of a man – the only thing that kept her world steady and her feet on the ground. When the tears blinded her she reached for him, curling her hand around the back of his neck and dragged him down to her, intent on kissing the breath out of him.

            “Is that a yes?” He asked, voice no louder than a whisper.

            “Of course it is,” she hiccupped through the tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all marvelous and loving human beings and I adore each an everyone of you for sticking with me until the end of this project. It has been absolutely wonderful for me, and I'm giddy over it.
> 
> Next up: the first chapters of "Renegade" will be going up by the end of the week, featuring Julian Hawke's arrival in Thedas. I hope you'll keep reading!


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